


The Way to Hell

by Dark_Frejya



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies), mission Impossible Fallout - Fandom
Genre: Angry Sex, Blood and Gore, Bodily Fluids, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Cockwarming, Dark, Dark Romance, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gun Violence, Hate Sex, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Murder, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Stabbing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Virginity, public fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Frejya/pseuds/Dark_Frejya
Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, hell is where he reigns.
Relationships: August Walker/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 68





	1. Hellraiser

“Well this fucking sucks,” he mumbles through clenched teeth, watching the blood drain down the rusty sink as he scrubs his hands clean. 

_“Sucks”_ doesn’t even cut close to describing his luck right now, or lack of it. 

If August had to put things into perspective: surviving a helicopter crash, the way did a few days before, doesn’t occur very often according to statistics. At the same time, he also dodged a spray of boiling gasoline that nearly splashed at his face. 

_‘Would have been really shitty having to walk around looking like Mr Hyde or something out of an 80’s horror film.’_

On the not-so-bright side, he just won himself the worthy title: _the most notorious man on earth_. August “the hammer” Walker, glorified CIA assassin, admired for each successful operation yet hated for his arrogance. 

No one saw it coming. 

His plan was made of his own brilliance, the manifesto, his own golden words threaded onto a digital paper. He spread them like disease via the dark web. The sun was there within his reach, so close to his fingertips, he only needed to grab it. 

And in just one moment, everything went to shit. 

_‘Fucking Ethan Hunt. Fucking Midget.’_

August rubs his face angrily, his nostrils flaring just from thinking about that squirt. He stares at himself in the mirror. Piercing blue eyes stare back with wet-hot fury. 

_‘That emotion, is that defeat? If so, it feels unfamiliar.’_

There’s dried blood smeared across his face. Black, sticky, caked around his moustache and on his left cheek. August bends over, head beneath the disgusting polluted tap, allowing the water to wash his face. But that won’t take away the sensation of utter repulse swimming within his chest. 

It was never about revenge, it was about ideals. Solid ones. Break the system, take down the old world. Though he hated that cunt ever since he started working with him, he would have finished Hunt off if not for Lane. Lane allowed personal vendetta to soil his motives, demanding Ethan kept alive in exchange for the plutonium.

The endless opportunities he had to finish Hunt off nearly makes his skull explode with pain. 

But he has better things to do than to play a game of cat and mouse with an ageing IMF agent. Ethan was left to die on that rock or at least gravely wounded. It sure sounded like he cracked two or more of his ribs during combat, so August assumes he won’t be chasing him any time soon. 

Now the CIA, MI6, Interpol, FBI, and the rest of the fucking world is a different story.

“Fucking catastrophe.”

His brand new clothes are stained with blood. Fortunately, he managed to steal a knapsack from some backpacking idiot on the way to the gas stop. There’s some cash and a clean shirt inside, even though the thought of having someone else’s clothes touch his skin makes him want to hurl.

_‘Beggars can’t be fucking choosers.’_

August quickly dries his face and combs his hair by his fingers. A few large curls fall onto his forehead, his hair in need of urgent taming. Next, he strips off his shirt, groaning in pain, his muscles suddenly deciding to remind him that he took quite the beating in his back, chest, and torso. 

He swallows the groan that begs to escape from his throat and throws the shirt into the trash can, standing in front of his beaten reflection in the mirror. His body is a canvas of bruises of many different shades of blue, flowing from his pecs to his muscular back. Turning to the side, he watches the scraped flesh of his forearms, remembering the searing pain and stench of burning skin as he got ground up against the rocks during the fall from the helicopter.

_‘This is going to hurt even worse tomorrow.’_

A sudden flush of water comes out from one of the toilet cells. 

Great, just what he needed, some idiot as an audience to question his appearance. 

Crouching to grab the clean T-shirt, he avoids eye contact with the man who silently paces toward the sinks. There is a moment of silence before the stranger turns the tap to wash his hands. 

August inhales with irate, he knows when he is being gawked. 

“Are you okay, mister?” 

“I’m fine, tha...” he pauses suddenly, holding the wrinkled shirt in his hands and turns to glare at the person in front of him. 

Not a man but a young woman greets his sight. Big grey eyes scan him from head to toe, lingering on his naked upper body with what seems to him like awe of his masculine features. A small, mischievous smirk begins to form on her face, rounding up her high cheekbones. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Unable to help himself, he offers a small grin in return. She appears to be slightly younger than him, maybe in her late twenties. The dark brown hair that’s pulled back tightly serves a deep contrast to her pale irises. After a brief inspection, he determines that she is a local, at least to this continent, if to judge by her features and outfit. Though at least a foot shorter than him, her head reaching only below his shoulder, which according to what he knows, is less common for women around here. 

Petite women are entertaining, in his opinion, particularly in bed. They usually try to fight harder for some reason, probably feeling threatened by his size and his vigour. 

August’s smirk grows apparent, his natural charm and charisma kicking in to work their usual beguiling magic. “Why is that?” 

The girl washes her hands and grabs a piece of paper from the dispenser, drying up while breaking eye contact and not providing him with an answer. His gaze follows as she walks to the door. Grabbing the handle, she turns to look at him, sucking her lower lip like a hungry cat as her eyes give his body one last raunchy glare.

“You’re in the ladies’ room, big boy.” 

The lack of urinals suddenly becomes very obvious as the door shuts behind her, along with the large tampons’ vending machine located right next to August’s dumbfounded face.

“ **Fuck** this day.”

~*~

Sitting next to the large glass wall, her eyes scan the view outside while warming the tips of her fingers against the paper coffee cup. She can feel how the thin layer of skin begins to burn, the cells dying one by one. 

It’s a surprisingly sunny day, yet the end of the autumn sun is the greatest deceiver. It’s barely 5 degrees outside, and the air will continue to grow colder as the days will pass. But she loves the cold, _Liam_ always says how proud it makes him see her thrive during wintertime. 

There are still no messages on her phone this morning. So she takes a moment to enjoy her coffee and ogle the nature outside the large window, uninterrupted. The gas stop is at a crossing 116km from the nearest town, travellers usually arrive here by hitchhiking. The road itself is surrounded by a large forest and a now-frozen lake.

As she looks outside, a small fox runs at the outskirts of the woods, peering into the empty road before becoming lost in the thicket. 

That day has a deceptive sense of freedom.

The mysterious, handsome stranger walks out of the ladies’ room. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that looks a size smaller than what he should be wearing. His large muscles stick out of it, looking even bigger against the tight fabric. He orders himself a cup of coffee, placing a hand on the counter while observing the store’s contents as if he is musing what other items he may need to buy. He grabs a map from the metal hanger on the counter and points at something on the shelves behind the teenager who works as a cashier.

It looks like someone is having a really bad day. She can’t help but beam with amusement at whatever his situation is. 

August places the crumpled cash on the counter, waiting for the acne-ridden teenager to serve him his shitty gas stop coffee and the pack of single-use razor blades he asked for. His phone is useless; the glass screen completely cracked, green and pink lights dance across it while large dark squares blink every few seconds.

He shoves it back into his trouser pockets and grabs his coffee, turning to look around him to figure out his next steps. He needs a good shower, new clothes, and to go underground for at least a while. But first, he needs a ride somewhere, anywhere. Perhaps he can steal a car or hitchhike, though he prefers not to. The fewer people to see him, the better. Otherwise, he’ll have to get his hands dirty again, and he doesn’t have time for that right now.

The news hasn't come through yet, he managed to cross continents while Ethan and his team, or what’s left of them, are recovering. Sloane, too embarrassed to admit her greatest failure, is probably trying to work something under the hood. She must be sending agents everywhere to assassinate him. He knows she will use every method to cover it up and handle him, even go dark-web. But that’s his realm, and if she thinks he's about to stop, she’s dead wrong. 

The diner is rather empty, making it easy for his eyes to spot the woman from earlier, a cheeky smile lights up her face while she glances at him intrigued.

He flashes a smile in return, beginning to walk towards her. Perhaps she could be used to benefit him somehow, any sort of way would do. Or he could just enjoy the company of a pretty girl one last time before his face will be plastered on every news website in the world. 

Anything to make this shit of a day better.

She bites her lower lip as he draws nearer. Never had she dreamt she’d say it in a million years, but somehow this man makes a moustache look remarkably attractive. Perhaps it’s the shape of his face? The large chiselled jaw and the dimple in his chin, or his high cheekbones, and big blue eyes. She’d say this man won the genetic lottery with his good looks. She already knows he has a great body, and wonders if other parts of his are gifted. Unapologetically, She allows herself to sneak a peek at his groin to determine that.

Her smile widens with satisfaction, and she lifts her gaze higher to look at his chest.

“Nice shirt.” She provokes him playfully. “Did you really?”

Looking down at his T-shirt he breaks into a sigh. White upon black, the letters say: _**“I shaved my balls for this?!”**_

He swears to burn that piece of shit once he finds something more suitable to wear. 

“Would you like to see for yourself?” He teases back. Usually, when flirting with a woman he is in a suit and a tie, looking at the top of his game. But hey, she’s still smiling,, and if she thinks he didn’t notice her staring at his cock, she’s wrong. 

Very little escapes his eyes.

The girl answers with a shrug, taking a slow sip from her coffee. It’s neither a yes or a no, which grants him permission to grab a seat in front of her.

“Having a bad day?” she asks, stretching up in her seat to sit straight and then flips her phone on its belly as if to not have it disturb their conversation. By the look on this man’s face, she’d say he’s having the worst fucking day of his life. 

“Were you robbed or something?” 

A bitter smile spread on his lips and he gives out a small, dry chuckle, which sounds more like pushing out air through his nose. It suddenly resonates in him that it hurts to laugh and he concludes that one of his ribs must have broke when the helicopter crashed.

“Something like that.”

 _‘Poor thing,’_ she studies him carefully. The American accent gives him away, but he doesn’t look like a tourist, nor does he behave like one. Must have been a business trip gone wrong. The table suddenly vibrates as her phone begins to dance upon the surface, yet she ignores the call and turns it down, too intrigued by the handsome stranger to be bothered.

August rubs his stubbles, examining her thoroughly in return. Having been with the CIA for 12 years, analysing people is something he could never shut off. This has been quite helpful with the ladies. Knowing what they want and how they want it. And usually, they want the same thing, and he is always inclined to provide it. 

There is something in this woman’s eyes, though, something that would give a grown man a crippling chill. It’s some sort of determination, he is certain she could eat a man’s head off and then spit out the skull. Even when she simpers, all that wafts from her is glacial coldness, deeming her smile as unpleasant as the barren icy mountain of this land.

“What’s your name, angel?” 

Angel? She’d been called a lot of things throughout her life, _“angel”_ is not one of them. Giving the big bulky man another investigative stare, the girl attempts to read into his perversions and possible kinks. 

It’s crystal clear that this man, whoever he is, is trying to snake his way into her garden with his serpentine tongue and alluring voice.

“I’m Ingvild,” her voice drops slightly as intrigue arises, “...and you?” 

“Luke.” he lies, using one of the aliases he has scripted for himself a long time ago. 

“What a beautiful name. Ingvild,” he repeats, letting it roll on his tongue with a guttural hum. 

Her phone vibrates again, dancing on the surface of the table with urgency. August observes, watching how she reaches her hand to decline the call without bothering to check who is calling. 

The entire time, her icicle gaze remains pierced at his. 

“What are you doing outside of Bergen?” she asks, holding her hand over the phone, already anticipating the next time it will ring.

_‘Running away? Looking for a place to hide? Freezing my balls off?’_

“Having coffee with a girl,” he answers and raises his cup as if to cheer before sipping the horrible, cheap coffee. Fuck, how much he misses rich, quality coffee. “A really bad cup of coffee, but the girl is very pretty.” 

Ingvild smiles widely, exposing her white teeth. She moves slightly forward in her chair, her hand rising to play with the edge of her ponytail, twirling it around her slender finger. “Aren’t you direct?” 

His eyes beam with satisfaction, familiar with that body language. Pheromones diffuse everywhere and August is willing to bet his life that if he had his hand down her panties right now, she’d be soaked and ready to be ploughed. 

The thought alone makes him shift in his seat. It’s been _months_ since he had a woman in his bed. 

“Not quite. If I wanted to be direct, I’d say you’ve seen me without my shirt, but I haven’t seen you without yours yet.” One of his eyebrows crooks up as he speaks, turning his words into a forward suggestion. 

If any other man had the audacity to speak this way toward a woman, the reaction would have probably been a slap and a look of utter contempt. But he is the kind of handsome that makes straight guys question their sexuality and walks this earth with the determination of someone who knows his worth.

It makes her smile and laughs huskily, the twirling of her hair around her finger becoming far more intense.

“Are you travelling here for business? You don’t seem like a tourist.” She dismisses his sexual suggestion even though her body language sends signals everywhere. _Luke_ is gravely interesting, and she is willing to bet he fucks hard; all confidence and angry stamina. If he looks this big flaccid, he must be a delight when erect. 

_‘A girl can dream.’_

“Yes, a business trip went terribly wrong.”

The sound of the television at the counter of the cashier abruptly distracts him. The teenage employee turns the volume up as the news broadcast. Turning in his chair, August stares at the monitor, hoping they’re not going to show his face. It would make things rather complicated. He’d have to take Ingvild as a hostage when he was really hoping to take her home willingly.

And quite, unfortunately, it _is_ about him, but thankfully, not that anyone can tell. The newscaster speaks about a body found next to a ditch in Bergen, a German tourist in his twenties who was robbed and had his throat sliced open. 

“What are they saying?” he turns to ask Ingvild, pretending to now understand Norwegian. 

“Some tourist was murdered not so far from here, pretty boring stuff,” she answers, looking completely unphased as she gawks at the television and then back at August. “Maybe it was the same guy who robbed you, I guess you got lucky?”

Her eyes lick at his features once again, observing his built body and recalling the taut muscles under this shirt. The pure, charismatic, and confident aura he has about him screams alpha, if someone would dare to rough him up, that person would probably be insane.

August can tell by the look in her eyes that she is beginning to question the situation. _‘Icy-eyes’_ might be pretty, but she doesn’t look like an idiot, and sadly, time is not on his side. As he sits here drinking mud-coffee, agents and assassins are being deployed across the world, trying to locate the man who tried to destroy it. 

_‘I wonder if I am wanted dead or alive.’_

“Here is another bold suggestion, Ingvild. I might not look my best right now, but I clean up nicely. l say we catch a ride back to town together where we can take a nice, bubbly bath with a bottle of expensive champagne, and then spend the evening someplace nice.”

The lustrous frost in her eyes shines brighter as she listens to his offer motionless.

_‘He really does have the courage of a man with a huge cock.’_

“Or we can stay inside if you’d please, beautiful.” August winks and leans back in his chair, puffing his chest, certain that he is going to receive a positive answer.

Resting onto her elbow, the girl places her palm under her chin as if charmed by his cocky behaviour.

“Sorry, no can do, Luke. I am meeting someone here.”

He sighs, pouting with disappointment and trying to look adorable even though he knows he is anything but that. “Unlucky me, a date?”

Ingvild shrugs, lingering at his face with curiosity until she finally answers “Something of that sort..” Her phone vibrates for the third time, and she rejects it once more.

A deep sigh leaves his throat, and he looks at his empty cup with slight disappointment. The fact that she is waiting for another person is a cue for him to probably leave. The fewer witnesses he leaves behind, the better. He wonders how she will react in a week or two from now when his face will be all over the news channels and social media.

_‘Probably sorry that I never fucked her brains out.’_

“Well then, I guess it’s time for me to leave, beautiful Ingvild.” he stands up, taking the empty cup in his hand. “Perhaps I can see you again, maybe you want to give me your phone number?” 

She looks at him from below, with that same smile that’s sweet and cold at the same time. Those fierce grey eyes sparkle like the eyes of the wolf lit by the moonlight. 

“No.”

Not used to being turned down, he's nearly taken back by her rejection, especially with the hungry looks she’s been giving him. But then it dawns him that this is a woman who likes to be chased. And he indeed enjoys the pursuit, though, he has bigger concerns than getting laid right now. 

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will,” she answers to which he snorts with mockery, only to be reminded again of the agonizing pain in his chest. Sex might be difficult at the moment anyway. 

“It was nice to meet you, Luke.” 

“Pleasure was mine, Ingvild,” he answers and turns away, making his way out of the gas stop. Her eyes follow him as he walks outside until he disappears from her sight. 

_‘What an outstanding specimen didn’t even flinch at the cold.’_ She thinks to herself. Her phone rings for the fourth time, and she sighs with frustration and finally picks it up to answer.

“Yes, Liam, I am here.”

~*~*~ 

The air outside is so unbearably cold it feels like sharp needles are prickling his skin. It’s as if the sun in the sky is only there for decoration, and wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some khaki pants, he is definitely under-dressed for this type weather. Though time is sparse and he hardly has time to sit around and moan about the weather. Standing at the deserted parking lot, August opens the map he bought to figure out his next steps before looking around to scan the remaining vehicles. There are too few which he can select from: a logging truck, a motorcycle, and rusty old jeep.

Being on a motorcycle dressed like this would freeze his balls, but it seems to be the best choice out of the three. 

He reaches for a device in his trousers and walks toward the motorcycle, hoping this won’t take too long before the owner or the bike arrives. A long metallic pin comes out of the device, and he sticks it in the ignition, letting the device do its magic and unlock the vehicle. It takes less than a minute,, and the engine purrs beneath his body.

“Thank you CIA,” he mumbles to himself and begins to ride toward the road. 

~*~*~ 

_‘It’s about time_ ,’ Ingvild thinks, as the older man finally walks into the diner. She was forced to eat a stale croissant and drink at least two more cups of coffee out of boredom. Totally not worth the calories. 

“Liam, that you? What are you doing here?” She mocks as if this wasn’t an arranged meeting. 

Tall and in his late forties, the Danish man clears his throat and sulks at the girl. Thick straight hair that used to be black but is now almost completely silver flows from his scalp. A permanent frown lines his forehead, and if Ingvild didn’t know him, she’d assume that this is a man who never smiled in his life and only grunts with disappointment even when hearing a joke. 

Shaking his head, he slowly walks to sit in the available chair in front of her. His stride so heavy it echos through the empty diner. “What were you doing to have me wait three times before answering?”

A sardonic grin stretches between her cheeks, growing wide enough to make it hurt. “I was on a date.”

Liam rolls his eyes and scoffs. If Ingvild would ever be on a date, it will be with the devil himself. Knowing this girl for over a decade now, he never even saw her look at men, to the point of believing she might be asexual or something. Not that it mattered to him anyway. 

Unzipping his thick coat and reaching a hand inside, he then throws a dark brown dossier on the table. Her eyes widen, beaming like a child on Christmas morning. A brown dossier only means one thing - the jackpot, the high calibre dream job. 

“That’s a big one. Who’s the client this time?”

“Open it, and you’ll find out for yourself,” Liam grunts, giving her one of his unimpressed glares. There is nothing he hates more than spending time answering stupid questions when the information she needs is literally right in front of her, tucked in a leather folder. He mentored and tutored her since she was a teenager; she knows how this works, which leads him to believe Ingvild is only doing this for attention which he’d never spare her anyway.

She gives him a disappointed look, her fake smile fading away as she drags the folder across the table and opens the file to see what’s inside. 

“So handsome!” she calls out sounding sarcastically impressed while maintaining an unreadable face. Her fingers rake a professional passport photo from a hefty pile documents, and she inhales quietly while facing the image of the bewhiskered man who sat right in front of her 40 minutes ago _._

_‘Fuck. me.’_


	2. Stormbringer

Never in her life was Ingvild so sorry for not taking a boy’s number.

“CIA...? Really?” she hums, reading through the file with a silent storm raging in her mind and the acrid taste of failure surging through her throat. What are the odds that a target would walk into the ladies’ room just when she happens to be there, and then come to sit and win her over with a blunt attempt to try getting in her pants?

_'I could have taken him home and end him right there...'_

It doesn’t take much to mask those emotions, having such a limited range of them, to begin with. She can feel her blood beginning to boil, disappointment digs her nasty claws hard in whatever is that beats in her chest.

She knew right away there was something off about him. For starters, he didn’t look like a Luke, and even though August Walker is an unfortunate, porn star generator type of a name, it sounds more suitable to a man who wears a porn ‘stache after 1980. 

His physics said he’s a man who not only works out but who is also trained in professional combat and martial arts. Which should have only made her question his story about being robbed even more, but she was too busy flirting with him for no good reason.

Now she will only have to work harder.

“Requested by Erica Sloane herself,” Liam answers.

“Her majesty the queen? I guess they really are in deep shit if they contacted Icarus to do the job for them,” she answers, eyes scanning through the file, getting every bit of information on him she can. It seems like up until 4 days ago, this man didn’t have a speck on him. An outstanding operative assassin, 12 years in the CIA, successful in every mission. Gone rogue and is apparently the leader of a group called “The Apostles.”

“My, my, what an impressive man. Do you think they call him ‘the hammer’ because of his sexual nature?” she teases, looking at Liam with a playful look. 

He rolls his eyes again and shakes his head. “What’s wrong with you?”

She turns the file at him and points at the photo. “Wouldn’t you fuck him, Liam?”

“No.” he answers coldly, looking at her utterly unamused. What am I to do with her? He asks himself concerned. It’s one of her moods when she is thirsty for attention which he would never give her anyway. Looking up to him as if he’s the father figure which he’s never willing to be. 

She already had one abandoned her, why have two? 

“If the IMF was able to stop him, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here having a nice chat.” he explains to her. “He had two nuclear bombs ready to be detonated in Kashmir.” 

She lets out a long snort. “IMF!? I thought you said this guy was dangerous.” 

“He’s an anarchist and a part of a guild, so I’d be careful.” he warns her, observing the young woman as she rummages through the file with great interest “Actually I’m pretty sure he is their leader, wrote some manifest or something” 

“Strange, it’s not in the file, this manifest” She answers, glimpsing at Liam for a mere second before returning to document.

Liam shrugs at her, looking bored and completely unbothered. 

She reads through meticulously, memorizing every detail: his height, weight, eye colour, skill sets, and the languages he speaks. Motherfucker pretended not to speak Norwegian and connecting the dots, she realizes he is the one who murdered the unfortunate German. 

It becomes obvious to her that he wanted to use her as an angle to plot his escape. Get a good bath, a place to stay, and no doubt, get his dick wet. Son of a bitch. She never tends to make her targets suffer too much, but he just made it personal. 

“Ingi,” Liam calls to her, interrupting her trail of thought. She lowers the file to her nose, staring at the ageing assassin who is now more of a broker or a pimp. “You are not the only one, get it?” 

“There will be others.” she completes the sentence for him. This only makes the sting of failure burn hotter. To think she had him right between her fingers and let him get away. 

“This man is wanted by every organization in the world right now. Mossad, FBI, CIA, MI6, Interpol, even fucking Scotland Yard. And the price is high, so you better watch your back.” He warns her, his hazel eyes looking at her with the closest thing to care she ever felt.

She smiles at him, one of her obviously fake smirks. “You know me, Liam, I am a professional.”

That’s actually the only thing he can say about her. She is organized, meticulous, and savvy. She’d spend weeks tracking down a target without being detected and takes them down in seconds without anyone ever knowing she was there. 

He nods at her with approval and then takes 1000 Norwegian krone in cash from his jacket. “To get you started,” he speaks and gets up from his chair.

“Bye. papa!!!” she provokes, eliciting a disgusted grunt from his mouth as he exits the diner.

She waits for him to drive away before sighing out of frustration and cursing loudly in her native tongue. The young cashier turns and looks at her, baffled. 

“Faen! Faen! Faen!”

She gets up, wearing a cold strained look on her face as she marches outside the gas station. She imagines he’d be in Bergen by now, he has at least an hour ahead of her at the moment. A man like him who managed to hide beneath the CIA’s nose for such a long time would probably go underground soon. She has a very limited time window for success.

Failure is not an option.

She stops at the parking lot, looking around her with a frown. Her bike is missing.

“Motherfucker!!!!!”

~*~ 

A deep, long, lingering groan escapes his throat as his large, naked body sinks into the hot water. He shuts his eyes, his voice raspy and low as he curses out loud in a mixture of pain and relief. “F….u……..c….k….” 

It’s not long before the foam in the bubble bath becomes pink from the blood that stains the water. 

He leans his head back, staring at the tiny soap bubbles as they slowly dissolve into nothing, one after the other. 

Quite the metaphor, he muses with sleepy eyes. Wondering how many more moments of serenity like this will he be eligible to. The young woman at the reception downstairs was yet to recognize him. She was slightly uncomfortable by his dishevelled looks, eyeing him with concern, but he paid by cash so she smiled kindly and kept her mouth shut.

He rests his hands around his temple, massaging gently at the mental pain that crowds his head. Over and over he tries to think of how the fuck did he end up like this. Stripped from all his victories, at one point he didn’t care about his title, his seniority, and rank. 

He wore fancy suits, owned a luxurious coffee machine, and fucked models. He always went on business class when travelling, stayed in presidential hotel suites, and had the fanciest of delights a man could dream of. On the outside, he was the cover of GQ magazine. 

But on the inside, he was black poison, thick as tar. 

The nights were spent sitting in his briefs next to his computer. Writing his manifest at the penumbra with passion. He remembers the sweaty nights, how he laboured hard to birth his agenda into the digital piece of document. 

All he needed to do was click the execute button and his virus would spread into the dark web, infecting hundreds of cells in minutes. 

It was only a matter of time until he gained followers. His apostles. To them he was Lark, he thought it was a suitable name, he’d be the daybreak the world needed. 

Might as well be the bringer of light. 

Ideas began small. Small actions of horrible mischief to create chaos. They continued to grow, nurtured. It wasn’t about hate, revenge, or villainy. It was about justice. 

His mind drifts away, exhaustion pulls him under its unfaithful blanket. He is just a man after all, not yet a god. He hasn’t slept in days, his body was weak from a serious beating. And that rib that was pestering him? Definitely cracked. 

In his dreams, he hears her voice. He reaches out to stroke her golden hair but it falls from her skull, tangled in his hand. “All of this for nothing,” she speaks in disappointment. Furious he turns her toward him, but her once hazel eyes are now black hollow pits.

He wakes up, splashing dirty bathwater everywhere in the large white room. It was just a dream. She is gone, thankfully. He doesn’t care anymore, he had thousands after her to warm his bed.

Wiping his face, he takes a deep breath and steps out of the bath. He slips on white shower robe and walks toward the cosy bedroom, looking at the large stash of money he has on the bed. The CIA wasn’t smart enough to figure out the aliases and different bank accounts he methodically scattered all over the world.

He has 500K Euros and 20K Norwegian Krone. This is basically their money that he obtained through trading and dealing the dirty little secrets he sold. No one had a clue, that for years he fucked the government down the throat. 

Serves them right. 

The government he was working for was rotten to its core, he lost belief in the system nearly a decade ago. 

He takes the money and crouches down, shoving it beneath the mattress for safekeeping for the night. He will purchase real clothes, a new mobile device, and a laptop tomorrow. Then, he has to figure out his next steps. There is no way of contacting the apostles but he will still be able to send a message to the dark web.

Operation “New Order” is still a go, now more than ever. He still has the blueprints and devoted followers. All that’s left is the plutonium.

“I hate shopping,” he grunts, falling onto the bed with exhaustion as he realizes the long, risky day that awaits him tomorrow. It’s not long before a long, dreamless sleep takes him.

~*~

It takes her nearly 3 hours to get home, having to hitchhike with perverts and walk along the rural sideroads for most of the path to Bergen. She called Liam right away after figuring out August stole her motorcycle, but to her not-so-great surprise, the older man just laughed at her coldly and hung up. 

Liam’s philosophy of life is that asking for assistance is for the weak. A woman as strong and independent as herself should be able to find her own way back home. It’s also a form of punishment as if the stolen motorcycle is but her fault.

She walks into her apartment, throwing her black little backpack on the floor before locking the door behind her. 

“Honey, I’m home!” she screams into the house. Her voice echoes back through the empty chambers as she pretends to wait for an answer. 

The apartment is abandoned as always.

Liam is right, the stolen motorcycle was sort of her fault, for different reasons. If she followed her desire, August would have been in her bed, she would have gained the intel for Liam, and would have broken some sort of record for the fastest elimination ever known to man (and woman). 

She also wouldn’t need to shop for a new motorcycle.

“I hate shopping,” she sighs, walking toward the living room and kneeling in front of the green IKEA sofa. Above the sofa is a pink neon letter sign nailed to the wall saying “Wish I knew you.”

Liam once visited her apartment to hand in her payment for one of her successful missions. He praised her for having the worst taste in decoration he’d ever seen. Truth is, that she cares very little for home decor. Everything she had in her apartment, from the vanilla-scented candles, the golden polygons plant holders, to the white IKEA furniture, she picked out of pure sarcasm. 

But keeping these to spite Liam was more than enough to keep her entertained. 

She pulls at the linen storage that’s placed at the bottom half of the sofa. There are no blankets or pillows stored there, but guns, knives, ammunition, and various fighting equipment instead. If he’s still in Bergen it can still be quick and clean. She picks the 9MM and a silencer for this job, an intimate kill. He was ready to fuck her in the little girls’ room, she can get close enough. 

Taking the weapons in her hands, she walks to get her backpack from the entrance to the apartment and then walks back toward the bedroom. The walls are light pink, like a teenage girl’s bedroom. They were like this when she rented the apartment, and being so amused by it she kept it the way it is. There was something about being a trained assassin for hire and going to sleep in a pink Disney princess bedroom. 

She indeed has very pleasant sleep in that room, resting on the queen size bed with the white curly bars. 

She places the gun on the wooden makeup station and grabs the file from her backpack. 

“August Walker,” she repeats the name. She takes the photo out from the folder, tucking it behind the frame of the mirror so she can stare at it while attaching the muzzle to the handgun. He looks so different yet the same in his photo, with hair combed to the side, a tie and a suit. His glare fierce like she remembered.

She wasn’t joking when she told Liam straight men would like him to fuck them. Too bad. A job is a job.

She takes a red lipstick from the upper drawer, some shade called “Burning Lust”. The only time she ever wears makeup for a job is when she needs to look a certain way. Usually, this is when she plays a role, like an actress. Otherwise, invited to any ceremonies or social events.

It’s hard when you don’t actually have any friends. Except for Liam, of course.

She paints her lips slowly, letting the colour define her lips, and then pucker them together. She leans toward August’s photo and plants a long, deep kiss to leave the imprint of her lips on his cheek. 


	3. She's a maneater

Some would say that killing is the best part of the job since it’s the grand catharsis, the climax of the chase. She’d like to argue that. Tracking is without a doubt her favourite part of any assassination. 

It’s like before having sex with someone for the first time. First, she picks up their scent, tracing this person’s steps one by one like a small predator. A fox, that would be her spirit animal. She’d learn a target’s behaviour, sometimes for days, observing them from a distance. She’d get to know their movements, vices, even their darkest secrets. People let on so much when they think no one is watching.

Then when the time is right she plunges in, penetrating the feeble flesh. Sometimes with a gun or sometimes a knife. She prefers knives when it’s a man. There’s an intimacy in it, some kind of eroticism. 

Before the kill she imagines herself in this person’s skin, dancing within them, like a dormant possession that awaits the right time to manifest itself. 

This is why she is good; this is why they will never let her go. 

Slipping into August’s body is a delicious idea. The man evoked her curiosity. By all means, August had it all. He certainly was superior to any other man by looks; she imagined he had the brains too if he managed to fool the Central Intelligence Agency. He was top of his game, high-ranked with all the benefits and could possibly have whoever he wanted. 

But he gave it all up, for some anarchistic cause? The thought hinged in her mind, like a hook piercing through a fish’s cheek if fish had ones, that is. For some odd reason, the manifest was not included in the file, the CIA decided to censure that part out.

_Words may hinder._

She had to get her hands on that. But first, she needed to find her motorcycle. In his arrogance, August had stolen the one vehicle he shouldn’t have. An Icarus assassin motorcycle: her precious Kawasaki Ninja 400, the **only** thing she ever loved in her life. 

But revenge wasn’t on her daily agenda, it was simply easier to track. August has given her a head start.

She begins her morning dressed for a run. Scanning the hotel areas in the city, she begins in the harbour. Another day of sun greets her, the sunshine bright yet still cold on her pale face as she runs across the red and yellow houses and watches the little fisherman boats at the Northern Sea. 

Her first attempt is to see whether the good people of Bergen spotted a light Kawasaki bike or perhaps if anyone offered to sell it. If he murdered and robbed that man, he was in dire need of resources. But it seems like a fruitless investigation. No one heard or seen a moustache-wearing man with an inappropriate T-shirt. 

Looking at the harbour, it befalls her that a man on the run like Mr. Walker would probably choose a place where he can easily disappear. She changes her course and runs to the northern side of the city, closer to the Bergens Fjellstrekninger - The great forest. 

She loves this area, more than she loves the sea. The ability to simply disappear between those great magical green woods is tempting. She can almost taste August’s desire to become one with the trees, to be unknown or at least invisible. 

She touches her lips and licks her fingertips as the vast green spreads before her eyes, the scent of pine sips into her lungs. She is at the crossroad, where nature has been segregated by the buildings of man. Hotels and bed & breakfast properties made of warm wood give people the sensation they are in nature. 

“If I were you, August, I’d build me a tent in that forest…” but she knew a man of his previous status would, for now, settle for a warm bed. _World’s most ironic anarchist._ It would be his arrogance that will lead his decisions once again. He is no Ted Kazinski.

Something in her gut tells her to venture toward the edge of the city where the forest and the city connect. She walks into the thicket, climbing up the mossy ground. The air becomes thicker and the sunlight is deprived the deeper she walks in. There, not too deep, she finds her beloved motorcycle. Leant against a thick tree, mud splashed all over it. 

“Prick,” she mutters under her breath, petting the metal body of her Kawasaki as if it was a fluffy pet.

She leaves the bike in its hidden place, for now, not wanting to raise his suspicion. At least now she knows of his whereabouts and she is proud of herself for picking up on the trail, her nose never letting her down. 

*~*

The city centre is peaceful. With a population of about two hundred thousand and hardly any tourists this time of the year, he manages to enjoy a silent morning. His first stop is at some fancy clothing shop. He buys himself several tailored suits, neckties, and a pair of black Italian leather shoes. Trying on his new clothes in front of the mirror, he nearly feels like the man he used to be. Suave, confident, menacing. 

He was half surprised he didn’t get kicked out of the store when he appeared wearing that retarded T-shirt he stole from the German fool. Maybe it was the cash he held in his hand and that threatening glare he gave to the salesperson. He decides not to take that chance again, and remains in one of the suits he means to purchase now. 

On his way to the cashier, he picks a large travelling bag made of brown leather and asks the pretty redhead who works at the counter to fold the suits into the bag. To which she complies, with blush that runs from her neck to down to her ample cleavage.

He doesn’t even hide his gaze, which only makes her breathe harder and her breasts to bounce softly while she smiles with excitement. The other guy working the store looks at them with complete annoyance as he notices the flirtatious exchange.

“Too bad, dear.” August murmurs, his eyes flickering between her chest and her eyes while taking the change along with the receipt. “At any other occasion, I’d love to fuck your tits.”

The girl covers her mouth, hiding the ecstatic roll of giggles that burst from her thick orange lips. August departs with a wink, then deliberately bumps his shoulder against the man who works at the store who stares at him with an awful snide. 

Stepping out of the store with the bag in his hand, he heads toward the digital hardware store. He will need an Alienware computer, a mobile phone, and some gadgets. The apostles have no way of reaching one another via regular communication, for their sake and his own. To remedy that, he perfected an untraceable system, allowing them to communicate strictly via the servers of the underground world.

The darknet is a bleak, slimy pit, it reeks like sewage full of nightmares. The first time he encountered it was during an investigation in his early years as a junior agent. He found every horrifying evidence of the rot that exists in the current system. Human trafficking, modern slavery, government officials’ secret paedophilia, and coprophilia. He wasn’t phased nor was he mortified. He knew already then, these are the fruits of a sick world, a world that needed curing. 

His final stop after the electronic shop is the hunting gear lodge. Naturally, he will need guns, rifles, and ropes, just in case. “Good thing this country approves hunting,” he mumbles to himself while his eyes are showered by the rifles that hang on the wall, decorated by different antlers and dead animal skin. 

_Never quite got the point of stalking someone unarmed and unaware. Where is the glory?_

He hisses with disrespect before approaching the man in the counter to request the gun and ammunition he will need.

She stands from a distance, her eyes intently following him as he makes his arrangement. The August she sees now is a whole new man, his messy bundle of curls now combed neatly to the side. He went with a dark grey suit and a tie as if he’s attending some business meeting and of course, went for the most expensive thick long coat he could find at the store.

_Such Arrogance. Shouldn’t he be in hiding?_

She chews on her lower lip while considering his behaviour, wondering if he’s planning to head somewhere that requires him to look as elegant as he is. _Perhaps this is the real him?_ This is his comfortable attire, strict and organized. It only makes her think of him as a greater psychopath. 

She sits at the half-empty gelato shop, licking a strawberry cheesecake-flavoured ball. Her tongue is painted pink and white and she twirls it around the sweet cream while staring at August through the glass of the hunting gear store. 

The mobile device on white marble table rings. Liam’s name appears on the screen with a screen saver of an angry raccoon. 

“Yes?” she answers, her tongue scooping a handful of ice cream. She hums with delight. 

“What’s your status?” Liam asks her, not even bothering to greet her. 

Her eyes follow August and she gets up as she sees him walking out of the store with his purchase wrapped in thick suede casing to protect the gear. 

“On it.” she replies and hangs up without saying goodbye. She slides the mobile device into the pocket of her vest and pretends to walk toward the opposite direction while casually licking her ice cream. Her eyes shut in vast delight when her elbow hit his hard ribs.

“Uff!” she hears the grunt of pain he elicits as her hard bone moves something in his ribs. Corny, she knows, just like in the movies.

Usually, she doesn’t show herself to a target, preferring to lay down on the grass and only jump her prey at the opportune moment. But this man is interesting for some reason, there is something twisted about him. He perfumes himself in elegance and sheer order when deep inside he is a monstrosity, vile and chaotic. 

Besides, he met her, he knows her name, which removes some of the element of surprise. Once he’ll see her tonight he won’t be as baffled as the many other men she took down in an instant. 

“Unnskyldninger” she apologies in her mother tongue and pretends to be surprised as she sees her familiar stranger. 

He looks at her with a slight irritation on his face; the last thing he needs right now is a pierced lung. She ignores his grimace and offers him a playful smile, her tongue circles the diminishing top of the ice cream slowly. 

_Of course his eyes follow, men are too easy._

“Destiny entwined,” she speaks and allows herself to scan him as if it hasn’t been what she did for nearly 2 hours since he set foot in the shopping centre.

“You look better, Luke.”

 _Luke_ , now he remembers, that’s the false name he gave her. He hardly even remembers her name, something Nordic, with a G? But these grey eyes are memorable and now he will also remember that flexible long tongue which works that cone in ways that doesn’t leave too much in his wild imagination. 

Too bad, tonight he won’t have the time for that anymore. He plans to already be away tomorrow. He cannot be distracted by a pretty little girl. 

Come to think of it, he is not sure how he feels about bumping into her again, so out of the blue in such a random location. Suspicion begins to slip in, his eyes narrow at her as if to see through her skull.

_Better be out of here sooner, you may never know._

“Our **destinies** have an off timing.” he offers her a pout, shrugging with his shopping bags in his hands. “As much as I’d love to spend an evening pleasing you, I will be leaving town tomorrow.” 

“That’s a shame, Luke.“ she looks at him with the best imitation of sadness she could conjure, her lips now licking themselves as she finishes with the ice cream. _Yes, you are indeed gonna leave town tomorrow._

“Perhaps, since our destinies have already fulfilled their purpose once, we can count on meeting again, elsewhere one day.” He offers her a false smirk in return and then shrugs, hoping that he will at least remember her face next time. 

“I’ll be counting on that, Luke.” she smiles sweetly, and nods at him farewell, watching as he begins to march away from her. His steps becoming urgent. 

~*~

The days are much shorter in this place. The sun only rose at 9 in the morning and now it’s barely 5 in the afternoon. The sky is already a shade of navy with the moon large and glowing through the window. 

It’s a beautiful scenery out there. A large forest where a man can easily disappear at in the time of need covers the landscape. But he’d be glad to go somewhere just a tad warmer. His new clothes are packed into the leather travelling bag he purchased earlier. The new Alienware laptop is hooked to the network after he spent the entire noon installing the required software and jailbreaking his new phone.

He sits at the small mahogany desk. His belt is hanging loosely from his trousers and his blue tailored shirt is slightly unbuttoned. All he’s missing is a cold beer but instead is sipping some cold brew coffee and groans as it runs through his throat.

Code name _J_Lark@1983_ , is connecting to the server. He logs into the chatroom, his eyes narrowing, fingertips hovering over the black keys. 

**_“Let there be light”_ **

He executes the command and stares at the screen. The red letters shine bright on black as he awaits the replies of whoever is online.

> _**AtomicKitKat:** “Welcome back, Lark, where is the big bang you promised us?”_
> 
> _**Judas_69:** “We waited, nothing happened, did you lie?” _
> 
> _**Knight_of_Darkn3ss:** “The plutonium, Lark, you lost it”_

He grinds his teeth together, displeased with the shower of salty complaints he is receiving. 

> **_J_Lark@1983: “It’s coming, I keep my promises.”_ **
> 
> _**J_Lark@1983:** “Need to reorganize. New plans - run the list of nuclear physics professor again please”_

He leans back in his chair, watching the comments that follow. Like children they complain and argue amongst themselves. No one made him their leader, in anarchy there are no monarchs, or gods, this is not the world he envisions. 

But by some natural order of things, he became the one who is running the show. The alpha dog leading the pack into the promised land. 

_**Knight_of_Darkn3ss:** “Let’s talk tactics”_

There is a knock on his door, rudely interrupting his current affair and breaking his concentration. It’s clear to him that no one he’s familiar with should know he is here, there are no visitors, meetings or friends of some sort that he’s expecting. 

Carefully. he lowers the laptop’s screen. His hand reaches for the loaded gun on the bed while he slowly approaches the door. He hides it behind his back with his finger ready on the trigger as he unlocks the door.

Enchanting grey eyes greet him, a determined succubus gaze. She is in some black tactical suit, a thick fabric that covers her entire form tightly yet allows her flexible and swift movement. Her hair is pulled back into a long french braid.

_Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Lara Croft?_

It doesn’t take more than a millisecond to put the puzzle pieces into place. Of course, she was an assassin. Ravenous eyes, and a cold, unpleasant smirk. Was she tracking him ever since the gas station? If so, she’s fucking dumb as fuck. She could have had him back then in the ladies room. He was unarmed ‘cept for a wide small hunting knife he always carries with him. 

“So the CIA is recruiting children now?” He mocks her, holding his gun ready behind his back. 

Cruel and joyless, she returns a sneer. “Nothing personal, it’s just a job.” 

With one smooth gesture, she withdraws a silenced gun from behind her back aiming at his face to shoot. Her finger pulls the trigger but August hits her elbow with his hand, forcing her arms higher and making her miss and hit the wooden window frame instead. 

He is hasty, as if he was ready for this fight before he knew she’s coming. Before she even manages to aim at him again he grabs her by the braid. His leg kicks the door shut while he spins her off balance and then throws her into the room, trying to dim her senses.

He doesn’t like fighting women, it’s not a competition for him and he doesn’t feel like seeing a girl cry because he broke her nose. But in this case, he will if he must. 

Ingvild hisses in pain, feeling the hair that has been yanked from her scalp. August takes her braid around his hand again and twirls her in his grasp as he attempts to force her back against his wide chest while trying to point the gun at her temple. 

Unlike her, he doesn’t have a silencer so it will be loud and messy, He’ll need to leave this place right away and he hates that. 

“Don’t make me Jackson Pollock your brains all over the walls, little girl.” he warns her.

His words of intimidation did nothing to frighten her, neither does the pain in her scalp. If he knew who she was, he’d know she endured far worse than that. More hairs rip from her scalp as she counters against him, her heel stomping at his foot and her fist pushing against his rib. The pain blinds him for a split second, causing him to stumble back, the gun thrown from his hand beneath the bed.

Aiming the gun at him she releases another shot and misses again. August doesn’t even look like a man who thinks he is capable of losing, despite the fight she puts out. There Is neither fear nor concern in his infuriated gaze. 

Dexterous, he moves away from her shot as if he foresees the path her bullet would make. He makes a run toward her with unrelenting speed. His hands wrap around her torso, his head presses against her chest. He is heavy and strong, causing her to fall to the floor with him on top of her. 

Now he has the upper hand and he can’t help but smile breathlessly as she wriggles beneath him, trying to get a hold on her gun that fell from her grip.

The gun is too far from her reach and August has his hands on her shoulders. She can feel his thighs pressing between her legs, preventing her from kicking him in his sensitive area which is now, for some disturbing reason, begins to harden against her groin.

“Are you hard?!” she gasps, looking at him shocked. 

He exposes his white fangs at her while they continue to struggle against one another, both panting and grunting with effort. “It happens, sweetcakes, and just so you know I am not rejecting the idea of fucking you.”

“Maybe in your dreams.” she spits out, her hands grabbing his jaw and attempting to twist his neck to break it. 

He grabs her wrists and twists them, making her scream out in pain before he flips them over so he is on her back and she is lying on her stomach. His weight makes it harder for her to breathe. One hand is laced in her hair, pulling her head back while they both make an attempt to reach the gun.

“Trust me, love, you don’t want to see what I’m dreaming about.” he rasps against her ear.

Never in her long career she needed to fight a target the way she is fighting him now. This is not going according to plan. 

August manages to beat her to the silenced gun, being physically larger than she is. He presses her head against the floor and sits straddled. Three warning shots are fired at each side of her head methodically. Dejected, she pauses right away. 

“Wanna use your safe word now, princess?” He asks her with pure scorn in his voice. She hisses breathlessly before managing to scream “Fuck you!”

August lets out a dry chuckle, grinding his still hardened bulge against her back. “Don’t tease me, sweetheart. You don’t want them to find your body with my cum up your ass.”

Having the upper hand now, he flips her back to face him while sitting on her chest. Like a defeated animal she splays her hands at each side of her head, signalling him that she is done fighting him.

August offers her a prideful smirk so smug it’s overwhelmingly vexing. But she contains herself, watching him with a clenched jaw.

“Who do you work for, little girl?” 

“No one you’d know.” she answers calmly, taking slow, measured breaths. A trick Liam taught her in order to maintain her stamina. Her eyes scan him carefully, learning the movement of each muscle on his face, the batting of his lashes. There is a tint of brown in his eye, a defective mutation. 

_What a beautiful flaw._

“Try me,” August suggests, looking at her with intrigue. She wasn’t interesting before, but now she is… becoming. He can’t help but argue that the view beneath him is indeed beautiful. 

She gave quite the fight, her skill and agility tells she’s been trained for years. The icy coldness in her face and calm reaction to defeat and her nearing death tells she’s been moulded into this life in complete darkness. 

“Icarus.”

He heard of Icarus, they’re a cancerous hitmen organization. Their assassins are practically bred. It’s no surprise she is accepting her death so calmly. 

“There are others, aren’t there? After me?” he questions next, already knowing the answer.

She giggles viciously, her smile so unkind it brings shiver even to a man like him. “There is a price on your head, every organization on earth wants you.” 

Infuriated, he stares at her while his nostrils flare. Sloane didn’t inform the media because she doesn’t want to admit her mistake. She wants to swipe him under the carpet, make him go away by the highest bidder. 

“It shouldn’t bother you, August Walker.” Ingvild says, bringing his attention back to her.

“Why not?” he asks, his eyes downcast to her face again, to see that smile becoming even more malicious. 

“Because you didn’t restrain my hands.” she mentions and before he manages to stop her, a hand claws his ribs at the same sweet spot she found weakness earlier. Her fingers dig into the fracture, feeling the bone shift in his chest. A husky gasp pushes out from his lungs, the pain paralyzing making him fall into a black fog inside his mind. 

The next painful blow is in his brow, as she headbutts him with great force, deeming him unconscious.

She lets out a sigh of relief as she lies on the floor with his body on top of her. It takes a great effort to push him away. It will take even greater effort to subdue him. 

~*~

A soft grunt leaves his lips as consciousness begins to slip in. The room is still blurry, the image twisted. There is a harrowing pain in the front of the skull and his body is immobilized. 

There is a small and narrow figure in the room,, all dressed in black. She speaks to him but he’s not even sure if it’s English. His senses are still trying to figure out their purpose.

Another grunt escapes him, this one louder as he tries to set himself loose. He realizes he is tied rather tightly to the chair.

“Don’t bother.” Ingvild greets him.

He lifts his eyes to look at her, pure hatred and fury burns through them as he sees her. 

_No way in fucking hell that I’m bested by a girl that weighs less than my luggage.than_

“Fuck you.” he answers, unable to think of anything witty as anger surges through him. 

“No, thank you.” she answers while her talons run over his laptop. She stands in the middle of the room, trying to figure out the password to snoop around. There was something Liam mentioned about his manifest, but it was never included in his file. It tingles her curiosity. She hated having secrets kept away from her.

“Leave that alone, that’s not for children.” he warns her, as if he’s in any position of power right now.

She places the laptop on the desk and marches toward him in long confident strides, her boots stomping heavily on the wooden floor. He wonders how someone so weightless can have such a hefty stride. 

With generous flexibility, her legs stretch to a split and she moves to straddle him, lowering herself on his thighs like some stripper on a pole.

 _Interesting_ , he thinks to himself, not even bothering to hide the impressed look on his face.

Ingvild’s arms wrap around his thick neck, while she looks into his eyes with a malicious smile.

“Oh darling,” she nearly mewls, her voice sultry while she shifts slightly on his thighs. “You are still so fuckable even when you’re down.” 

August lifts his chin up and shoots her a leer. “Untie me love, and I’ll show you just how fuckable I can be.”

A scornful giggle leaves her lips and she shakes her head. It was an honourable battle in which she had the upper hand. She owes him as much. “What’s the password for your laptop?” she asks, pressing her ass hard on his thighs to increase the pressure on his legs.

“Don’t act stupid.” he replies. There is no bargaining here, she means to kill him by the end of the night anyway.

Her hand grabs his cheek, forcing him to look deeply into her eyes. He notices the symphony of colours there, pale blue, grey, and an eruption of green “What do you care? You’re gonna be dead anyway. You know what happens when you die, August Walker?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Exactly,” she smiles, pleased with his answer “No gods, no heavens, no hell.”

August’s face softens slightly, a small slanted grin of agreement appears on his face. _She would have made a fine apostle._

“Are you always this curious about a target, or am I special?” his voice becomes lower all of the sudden, seductive, like the first time they met and he attempted slipping inside her panties. 

“On…”

A loud hiss cuts her words in half, shock tears through her body as pain pierces through her flesh, ripping through meat and muscle. Her eyes widened with fear and what he can only presume to be hopelessness. 

“See? I told you I’d fuck you eventually.” August grins as he presents his untied left hand. His right one still holds the blade inside her, angling it upward while she mewls.

Dark and thick blood covers his fingers, streaming down her body and stains his trousers “A little further up and I’ll be inside your lungs and then you’ll be drowning in your own blood, beautiful.” he suggests, speaking so low as if this is some sort of twisted foreplay.

“No!” 

A pained grunt leaves her mouth. She pulls away and stumbles back, holding the gaping wound in her torso with her hand covered with blood. She feels nauseated from the pain itself. Never in her life has she experienced anything like this before. 

“What?…” she mumbles incoherently The look on her face, the astonishment, it’s of someone who has never been injured on a mission before.

“Awww, your first time?” August teases viciously as he stands up, tilting his head at her while the cut rope falls to the floor. “Did I just pop your cherry, love?”

With pure confidence and an absolute sense of victory, he marches toward her, his steps slow, his eyes cruel as they drink in the sight of her poor situation. He takes his time with her, knowing she won’t be able to make it far in her current situation. 

_Like hell you are._

She kicks the wooden desk, shoving it in his direction which nearly causes the laptop to fall on the ground. August catches it carefully, giving her enough time to sprint out of the room. 

Stretching up with ease and placing the laptop back on the desk, he glares at the doorway. He sees the droplets of blood on the floor, bright and smooth, leaving a fresh trail for him.

~*~

Chattering teeth are a new sensation. Suddenly the cold is a nuisance as she finds herself running lost through the wilderness of the forest. Liam would say she is to blame, she didn’t bother checking for additional weapons. This is a CIA special assassin, he was trained for situations of captivity.

Holding at the bleeding wound, she gasps and looks behind her every now and then. Something in her mind tells her that August is not the type of man who leaves a job unfinished. He has that look he had in his eyes like he would eat her alive.

She might have a fighting chance here, she knows this forest since she was a child. When she still believed in fairies and trolls, she practically lived in this magical place. Now emptied of magic, her memory did not betray her.

There is a light, bright and shimmering at the clearing. It comes from the reflection of the moonlight on the frozen lake, making the surface look like pale blue crystal. Droplets of her blood taint it as she stands carefully on the surface, making her way through. 

“You left quite the trail for me, love.” 

She pauses, breathing out with this new sensation she just discovered a few minutes ago: Fear. Her entire entity shudders in excruciating pain, nausea becoming stronger and the dizziness in her head threatening to overcome her. 

She still has an odd to beat him. He won’t be able to cross the lake running, he is too heavy. 

The click of his gun being cocked toward her bests that odd right away, forcing her to turn toward him slowly and carefully. Hope is diminished. Yet he is damned if she’ll go without a fight.

She lifts her gun to aim at him, her bloodied hand shaking as the weight of the gun suddenly feels oddly too heavy in her small palm. She never cared about living, but now, she feels like she doesn’t want to die. 

August snorts lightly with scorn, appreciating her final stand. 

“Time to say goodnight, princess.” 

Bats fly frantically as the sound of gunfire echoes in the forest, they cover the sky with bleakness. The sensation is even worse than having sharp metal pierce through flesh as the icy water seeps through her suit. It’s like being tormented by shards of glass that tear your nerves.

In his cruelty, August saved his bullet to shoot the ice beneath her feet to let her drown in frozen water. He remembers something telling him, it’s a certain death within 30 seconds. 

He checks his watch while watching her struggle to get out, her bare hands slipping on the ice, unable to grasp onto anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own August Walker or Mission Impossible


	4. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own August Walker or the Mission Impossible franchise  
> Please leave feedback :)

Funny, he’s never seen someone drown in icy water before. With her injury and massive blood loss, the struggle lasts in less than a minute. Even with its natural survival instincts, her muscles give up, becoming stiff as the blood begins to chill her veins.

August stares fascinated. Not once did she scream for help, or even begged him to save her. 

Truth be told, it kinda pisses him off as much as he finds it admirable. 

Such a strong-willed girl. Would be a shame to rid the world of her so soon. 

“Whatever.” he mutters to himself and carefully steps toward the crack in the ice. His hands hoist her body up before she sinks below the water. With water in her lungs and her muscles becoming stiff, she’s slightly heavier. 

A red path of blood forms on the ice as he drags her body toward the edge of the lake. There is no urgency in his behaviour. He kneels ever so slowly, staring at the lifeless woman and wondering if in her cockiness this is how she believed this day will end.

Her skin is pale blue, lips dark purple. Drained out of life force, her delicate Scandinavian features look like something out of a fairytale. A kiss might wake her up, or it may not. It won’t make any difference to the world if she's dead or alive, it certainly won’t make any to August Walker. 

His digits stroke her frozen face, the skin is stretched over the hardened muscles. He tilts her head up and forcefully presses at the hollows of her cheeks. For some reason, he thinks of a different dead girl, even though they are nothing alike. His mouth covers hers, breathing oxygen into her lungs. Her chest rises, filling with the air he breathes into her. He repeats the process four times and then begins compressing her heart, watching her corpse lie peacefully on the snow.

Never in his years of service had he needed to perform CPR on another person. It’s not as melodramatic as shown in the bullshit movies he’s seen; no one’s shouting “C’mon girl! Breathe!!!” and hits her chest in despair. The owls and bats that chant between the large trees and the wolves howling at the moon from a distance couldn’t care less if Ingvild, whatever her-last-name-is lives or dies. 

On the contrary, they’ll be thrilled to eat her eyes out. 

He pauses on his attempt to resuscitate her and watches as no change appears in her face. His hands rest in the air, hovering above her for less than a second, considering if to give her another chance. He leans to capture her mouth again when Ingvild suddenly twitches, gagging as water seeps through her mouth and nose like some decorative fountain.

August observes quietly. Her eyes are shut, her body is only reacting instinctively, coughing out the water in her lungs. He nudges her to the side, draining the water out until she stops coughing and lays unconscious on the ground. 

He moves his ear closer, listening to her soft breaths. He wonders how long will she survive in such a condition, suffering from hypothermia and blood loss.. This might have been a favour, he would have granted her a crueller death.

Blackness surrounds her, chaining her to the ground. An excruciating pain blossoms in her lungs, as if someone placed a massive weight that smothers her while her throat and her nose sear with pain. The rest of her body feels numb, someone might as well leave her limbless.

The image in front of her appears blurry as she attempts to open her eyes and hang on to the tendrils of reality, uncertain when and where she is and what happened at all. Was life just a dream? 

Or was it a nightmare?

_'Liam?'_

No voice is produced from her lips, she is not even sure they’re moving. 

The face that greets her is certainly not Liam. It’s the man who granted her this agonizing death. He looks at her with silent curiosity, not saying a word as her glassy eyes become more and more vibrant.

Her hands suddenly reach to his throat, clutching him with all the energy left in her traumatized body. As battered as she is, he still has to use force to peel her claws off of him. She struggles, grunting and hissing, her nails leave bleeding scratches over his cheek.

“Remember you are only alive for as long as I permit it,” August speaks to her calmly, impressed by her stubborn will to kill him even when she’s hanging by the last thread of her pathetic life. 

The struggle takes no longer than a few seconds as her eyes roll back and she falls into the ground, unconscious again. 

August collects her in his arms and rises, carrying her through the woods. “Better this way, princess,” he whispers to the sleeping beauty in his arms. The temperature of the water has slowed the bleeding, causing the blood vessels to clot and reduce the pace of her heartbeat. 

He returns to the bed and breakfast to be greeted by the receptionist who stares at him, baffled. 

“Too much to drink,” he explains, offering her a charming smile as he continues marching toward his room with the unconscious girl in his arms.

* * *

“Fucking mess,” he mutters as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him with his leg. That stab wound may be bleeding slower now, he hasn’t ruptured any viable organs. However, the gash in her flesh is large and still needs to be dressed. 

He drags her to the bath and puts her on her feet, letting her limp body lean onto his while he unzips her suit and boots, stripping her to her undergarments. A crescent-like slit gushes blood at the side of her abdomen. 

August places her in the empty bathtub before grabbing the first aid kit he bought at the hunters’ shop. Being a wanted man now, he had to be prepared for everything. 

It was nearly him tonight that needed that first aid kit. 

The scent of alcohol fills the room as he pours it onto her open wound. He waits for a response from her, maybe a twitch from the excruciating pain, yet Ingvild is so far gone she doesn’t react whatsoever. His finger presses to the tendon in her neck, only to make sure he is not taking care of a dead girl. 

A faint pulse is there; her heart still beats. Yet her body is as cold as ice, and he knows that if he won’t take care of her soon her systems will begin to shut down one after the other. He sews her wound shut quickly, making unfashionable stitches across the wound.

“Sorry love, no more bikini for you.” he mocks the sleeping girl. “Although porn sites must be filled with scar-porn, so you’re good.”

After stitching her up and dressing the wound, he carries her back to the bedroom and lays her on the bed. Her skin is shivering, frozen and pale as death itself. She has hypothermia and needs to have her body temperature stabilized before every one of her major organs will go into failure. 

“Not how I pictured us getting into bed naked,” August jokes without humour while beginning to peel off his clothes until he is completely bare. He towers over her trembling form and watches how helpless she appears. His hands run down her spine, reaching to find the hooks of her bra. It takes no effort to unclasp the flimsy soaked fabric and discard it on the floor. Next, he coldly and methodically slips her underwear off. He takes no pleasure in stripping an unconscious woman who can’t defend herself or struggle, yet he cannot resist observing what’s laid right in front of his eyes. 

The sight is indeed pleasing. 

_'Hate me later, princess. I am just a man._

August climbs onto the bed and lies in front of her. He pulls her toward the warmth of his body until her forehead is pressed against his chest and every inch of her skin is covered by his own. With a clenched jaw, he holds her close.

In his arms, she trembles, teeth chattering, while her heartbeat is feeble and can be hardly felt against his chest. 

He thinks of nothing while holding the cold, half-dead girl against him. 

Nothing at all.

Not the memory of another dead girl. 

* * *

Ingvild scratches a scab on her knee, watching the other girls as they play without her. They stick their tongue at her and call her freak. She doesn’t cry, only sniffles gently while her small fingers pry at the itchy skin. 

“Ingvild,” Sister Marja walks toward her, making a sour face as she sees the girl. She never liked her either. “Someone is here to pick you up, finally.”

Little Ingvild jumps from the dirty log she is sitting on, brushing her skirt and arranging her braided pigtails before joining Sister Marja. _That uptight crone, all she needs is a good fuck._

The sister hurries toward the orphanage while Ingvild runs after to keep up. Her heels echo on the floor through the arched hallway of the facility. 

A man waits for them in the office of the Mother Superior, Yet another crone who looks like she never had a good fuck. But there is a smile on her face, making her loose skin become all creases and wrinkles like a dried rotten potato.

Ingvild looks at the man who stands with his hands behind his back. His hair is black with a few threads of silver. She is uncertain if he is smiling or not; the expression on his face is of a person who’s trying to appear pleasant but in a very contained way.

“Ingvild, this is Liam.” Mother Superior speaks in her terrible heavy smoker voice. “He is your new adoptive father.”

* * *

Warm light strokes her face, forcing her eyes to blink open slowly. A basic function that suddenly feels oddly painful. Her eyelids are too heavy as if she never opened her eyes before in her life. The scenery around her is still too vague; she doesn’t recognize the room at all, wondering if she is in another dream.

A word in her own language blurts out of her mouth as she tries to sit up, accompanied by a small groan. Everything feels out of place as if her limbs have been misplaced and her internal organs exploded inside her body. Pain begins to course through her body, starting with the muscle of her right forearm which now feels extremely strained. 

“Ah…” she grunts out, tugging at her arm which is in an odd position.. But for some reason, her arm won’t budge. It’s tied to the bedpost above her head by a tight rope. 

_This is hilarious. Like watching a dog wake up from anaesthesia._

“Hva?” she asks in her mother’s tongue. “What?”

She gives the bind a few good moments of struggling before giving up. It’s when the heavy blanket that covers her slightly descends from her chest. She realizes she’s been completely stripped of her clothes. 

Panicked, she hugs the cover to her chest with her free hand. Her eyes were looking around with slight anxiety while she continues to pull her right hand in an attempt to free herself.

The scent of coffee tickles at her nose, alerting her that she is not alone.

August appears in front of her with a red cup of coffee in his hand. He wears that familiar arrogant look with a hint of a smile, so vicious and cold it makes her feel she wasn’t only stripped off her clothes but of her skins and muscles as well.

_Would have been better if I was stripped and bound to the devil’s bed._

He takes the wooden chair, dragging it on the floor which makes her cringe at the screeching sound. Fragments of the night before begin to fill the gaps in her memory. She tied him to this chair. 

Placing it in front of her, he sits down, legs spread widely with confidence she can only describe to herself as irritating _as fuck_.

She hugs the cover tightly to her chest, her legs curling toward her torso to shelter herself which suddenly inflicts an excruciating pain in her lower abdomen making her moan involuntarily. Peeking beneath the thick blanket, she finds the large bandage on her torso, stained with a few drops of brownish-red blood. 

“Good morning, love, we’ve had quite the night.” 

More shards of memory begin to cut through her mind. Like remembering an event that happened so long ago, it almost feels like a dream. Her mind fights to make sense, to grasp at the fuller image. She recalls gasping through the woods at night with weak limbs and a hand full of blood. Then a shot that ripped through the night. Bats were flying everywhere and then her body was cold for some reason. 

No, she was freezing.

Like a videotape that’s cut off and glitches in the middle, her memory stops there. Making her stare at the Scandinavian pattern on the blanket as if she will find any answers there.

“Who is Liam?” August asks, taking a long sip from his coffee. There is much amusement in seeing her cowering before him looking so helpless right now. Stripped, unarmed, and bound to his bed after he took her life and gave it back. 

He licks his lips at her which only makes the alarmed look on her face become more distinguished. 

“You’ve undressed me?” she asks, finding out her voice is aching and hoarse, as if something seared her throat. “And tied me to the bed?”

August’s teeth are exposed to her as his smile widens. She makes a note of two sharp fangs, it makes him look like a vampire. “Perceptive, aren’t we? Wasn’t for any personal interest, you were in hypothermia.”

He gives a small pause, his eyes travelling across her covered body, unable to deny how nice it was to wake up with a naked woman in his arms. “Not that I didn’t enjoy having your tits pressed to me for an entire night”. 

Even as lost as she is, she can’t help but roll her eyes at him and groan with hatred. 

_'If anyone in Icarus hears of this, I’m done for.'_

Was the stinging pain in her chest failure or sepsis? Either way, it stung. This was far from how she imagined this mission going along. Ending up as a captive of a psychotic target, tied to his bed as a future sex slave or heaven knows what.

_'How the fuck did I end up here? Like this? Why?'_

August watches as she frowns with deep concentration, forcefully trying to evoke some memory of all the lost hours from last night. He wonders if she knows he killed her. He’d very much like to remind her of that, of how she was at his mercy and the only reason she’s alive right now is because he allowed it.

 _'And still, she tried to kill me right after I gave her back her life. What a woman.'_

“Who is Liam? And please don’t make me ask again, given the poor situation you’re at right now, princess.”

More echos begin to float in her mind. It’s the look of superiority on his face, the piercing gaze that threatens to cut right through her. 

“You tried to kill me!” 

“No. I _have_ killed you,” he corrects her.

“You were dead for at least 5 or 7 minutes.”

She stares at him completely bemused, her eyes seeking for answers on the lines of his chiselled face. There is no remorse, no care, no mercy in it. She doesn’t even bother to look for affection, whatever that looks like. He is as cold as Helheim. 

“But you _saved_ me. Why?”

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face straining as he remembers that idiotic idea he had last night, that mistake that's now lying naked on his bed. For a man who plans ahead, he hasn't thought this one through, not even for a second. 

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I only need you for intel. One wrong move and I’d be glad to put you back to the bottom of that lake.”

“You know who sent me, CIA, Erica Sloane.” She shrugs, staring at him oddly.

He leans forward in his chair looking deeper into her eyes, trying to invoke fear in her. Yet she remains stoic, only her eyes glaring at him like two icicles. 

“How did you know I was here? Who else knows?”

“I’m a good tracker,” she answers, doing her best attempt to shrug her shoulders with one hand latched above her head. “And you are not as smart as you think you are, August Walker.”

August offers her a dangerous stare, crossing his arms around the wooden backseat while his feet push from the ground to lean closer to her. He doesn’t like to be challenged, especially not by silly little girls. 

“Why is that?” 

A small smile spreads on her face. “From all the vehicles you could have taken, you stole _my_ bike.”

A hiss of disbelief leaves his nose but the answer doesn’t please him. He leans back on his chair until it lands forcefully on the ground, making a loud thud through the moderate silence in the room. His hand reaches toward her, grabbing her jaw and cupping it crudely. 

“No, how did you know I was in Norway?” 

She clenches her jaw, trying to escape his touch but his grip becomes firmer, his fingertips painting red marks on her sickly-pale skin. “Answer me.”

“I didn’t-”

“Bullshit.” he challenges her, now closer to her face than she would have ever wanted. His hot breath is a breeze on her skin. Her natural instinct to learn details kicks in, forcing her to pay attention to every freckle s on his nose, his bottom lip, and the lines and small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

_'So much anger,'_ she analyzes. He is not even furious yet it seems he keeps so much bottled up. 

_'Does he ever get tired?'_

“I didn’t know,” she finally answers, both sincerity and scorn in her voice. Then, a small provoking smirk appears on her lips. “It was destiny that brought you to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head at her with disbelief, recalling their little flirtatious run-in 2days ago. His eyes observe her while a smug smirk spreads across his face. He allows his gaze to travel further down her neck and her chest, attempting to peer beneath the blanket to get a reminder of what was pressed to his body the night before. 

“Telling you the truth, August Walker, would have killed you then in the ladies room,” she provokes, aware of the fact that he’s staring at her chest even though she keeps it covered.

“Oh?” he returns his gaze back to her, a single finger now takes a hold of her chin, tilting her head up violently. “How would you have done that? I’m intrigued.”

Ingvild licks her lips, drawing attention to her mouth. It’s seduction that she offers but with that same cold, now vicious smile.

“Slicing your throat, while you’re were washing your stupid hair below the tap., I’d then shove a tampon up your ass and send a photo to everyone in Icarus and to Sloane so they can have a good laugh.”

_'My phone, shit.'_

The mobile device is traceable, if Liam hasn't heard from her in a few days he could find her. But now August has it, with the rest of the stuff he confiscated from her. She looks around, trying to find where he placed her items.

August interrupts her inspection, his hand wrapping around her sore throat with a menacing gaze. “Don’t give me any ideas, princess. I’m not the one tied up and naked here.” 

“I need to go to the girls’ room,” 

She ignores his threat, remaining calm despite the hand that can easily snap her neck. 

He looks at her dumbfounded, clenching his jaw once more. “What?”

“I need to go…”

“I heard you.” he frowns, letting go of her throat forcefully and then shoving the chair back, making it screech against the wooden floor while pacing the room, irritated.

 _'Great, now I’m a fucking babysitter? '_

He begins to regret ever saving her pathetic little life. What is there to gain anyway? A guy named Liam? Whoever that is to her. She mumbled that name in her dreams when her body was struggling to fight for survival.

August finds the bathrobe in the shower room and throws it on the bed next to her, before hovering above her chest to cut her bindings with the same knife he used to stab her last night. 

She tries to remain as relaxed and brave as she can, wanting him to think she is not intimidated by him and what she believes to be his empty threats. But every time he makes sudden movements. the intimidation shows in her beautiful grey eyes. Her body flinches and squirms helplessly.

If only she knew how aroused it made him, she’d be terrified. 

“Try anything and I'll unstitch you and let you bleed to death.” 

Her wrist burns, the narrow rope has chafed her skin so badly there are deep purple marks on her flesh. She rubs it gently, trying to sooth the pain before grabbing the white cotton robe and staring at August with hatred. 

He stares back at her while playing with the knife between his large hands. He slides a finger carefully on the edge of the sharp blade, making a harsh statement. No, he is not going to turn around.

Rolling her eyes she hides beneath the cover, pulling the bathrobe beneath and wearing it quickly, the relief of having something other than a blanket covering her feels almost astonishing. 

At last, she throws the heavy blanket away and kicks her legs out of bed while wearing his oversized bathrobe. August remains silent, his eyes fixed upon her while the knife is pressed between his teeth. 

Trying anything like killing him or escaping is far from realistic as she finds her legs hardly able to hold her own weight. The hardwood floor beneath her feet feels soft and mushy, if someone would have told her she’s stepping onto marshmallow she might have believed them. 

She only manages to make two feeble steps before black spots appear in her sight and she falls forward with a pained grunt. She never makes it to the ground. Odd, she hasn't noticed how big and strong he is when wrestling him on the floor. It seems that August has doubled in size.

“Who was it that didn’t love you, August?” she provokes coldly, grunting as she tries to lift her torso from his elbow. “Was it your mother? Or your dad?”

Silence and indifference is his answer to her query, with only a muscle that twitches in his cheek. He observes quietly as her hands grasp his biceps desperately and pathetically, trying to stabilize herself. It must make her hate him even more right now, to need him as much as she does.

He recalls how much _he_ hated himself when he needed someone.

“Both then…” she answers, slightly panting.

“Did anyone ever loved you _at all_? Ingvild?” he taunts her back while helping her get to the toilet. He notices how her eyes look around while they move through the room, looking for her things, no doubt. She is smart, he’ll give her that, she is cunning and calculated even in her weakest moment. 

But he’ll always be a step ahead. 

“More than they loved you, I am sure.” 

He lets her into the small room and shuts the door, leaning against it and patiently waits with his arms crossed. The sudden silence and her short absence begin to cloud his thoughts. It’s almost as if he’s dreaming awake, seeing _her_ again, her hair falling from her decaying scalp like leaves falling from a tree.

_'Not more than you.'_

The crude vibration of his phone snaps him back into reality. A message from one of the apostles, stating nothing but a location and an hour. He smirks to himself, glad to be soon away from this freezing hell. Now the question left is, what he should do with the little problem he created for himself?

Snap her little neck? Strangle her to death? Make it intimate, she deserves as much. He can already see his body hovering on top of hers, his hands wrapped around her, tight like a lover’s embrace. The robe opens as she struggles, exposing much of her naked flesh.

The thought makes him hum with delight but once again he is interrupted. This time it’s by her face that stares at him, blank of emotion, with eyes like two empty crystals. She leans against the door frame, her face tilted up to meet his gaze. “I need to shower. I smell like you.” 

He wonders at all why he should fulfil her request. She’s a prisoner, not a guest, and far from being someone, he’d care for. His eyes run up and down her body and finally at the cold unreadable expression on her face.

“Whatever.” 

The bathroom is rather large, surrounded by cream-coloured marble tiles that adorn both the walls and the flooring. There is a large, fancy bathtub in the middle of the room, one that is made to look old and classy with golden taps. An additional shower is placed at the other side of the room, surrounded by a thin wall of glass. 

The bath looks so tempting, her eyes fixate upon it, fantasizing about slipping into a warm bubble bath with one of those pink and purple bath bombs.

August notices her fascination and snorts, edging her toward the shower instead. “You should’ve taken my offer back then, princess. Be thankful that I am allowing you the luxury of showering at all.” 

For all he cares she can die of infection, who knows what bacteria these lake water she bled into had.

“I’d take the shower over-sharing anything with you,” she spits back, her hand grasping the golden handle of the glass door. August remains facing, leaning against the marble tile with ease while sucking on his bottom lip with anticipation.. 

“Aren’t you going to at least turn away?” she asks naively, crooking her eyebrow up, bewildered by the large man who’s standing there with sheer confidence on his face, not bothering to give her an inch of privacy.

“No,” he smirks cockily, licking that small freckle on his lips. “You tried to kill me, I don’t trust you. But don’t worry, won’t be anything I haven’t seen before, princess.” he shrugs and tilts his head. His eyes gesture at the robe as he awaits for her to slip it off her body. 

Ingvild chews the inside of her cheek with the fury that courses through her veins. He seeks to humiliate her even more, to show her again how little is the power she has right now. 

But men are fools, a woman has more power over a man, especially when she is naked. She doesn’t mind what he sees and if he likes it or not anyway. Also, nervousness is not in her spectrum of emotions. 

The white cotton robe falls off her body, landing at her feet with a soft thud. There she is standing completely bare before the man who tried to murdered her and who for some sick, twisted, megalomaniac reason nurtured her back to life. 

Unlike last night, he has the freedom to linger on what stands in his sight. Milky white skin, stretched taut over an apt figure. Athletic; formed by years of whatever combat training she has endured. There are no scars on her body save for the new one he gave her which is hidden behind gauze. The thought of letting her survive just so she can curse him every time she sees the hideous crescent scar is quite the temptation. 

He further inspects her body, imagining cupping her small breasts in his large hands, they will not fill his palms completely, but it will suffice. He was always more into women’s behind and the rounded shape of her tight ass is indeed pleasing. 

“As I said, nothing I haven’t seen before,” he speaks out, letting his gaze travel back to meet her face again. 

She hisses through her nose, rolling her eyes as she walks inside the translucent room and turns the stream of the water to wash over her body.

The heat of the water immediately makes her groan loudly with pleasure; it echoes through the entire room. Her body is far more battered than she even realized, it feels as almost as if she is being redeemed, baptized, or whatever other religious allegories she could think of. 

She leans against the wall for support with both her palms flat against the surface. Her back arches and she lets her head tilt back with her eyes tightly shut. The damp hair sticks to her spine, while she lets the droplets of water slide between her perky breasts and down her torso. 

Sweet moans escape between her lips with every second, accompanying the water that soothes her aching muscles.

August can feel the fabric of his trousers tightening as blood stirs through the veins of his cock. She squirms beneath the stream, moving so sensually while making these “fuck me” noises all too clear. It’s meant to tease and provoke him. He is tempted to march in there and fuck the living hell out of her. 

_'Fucking her to death, now that one I haven’t tried before.'_

“Enjoying the show?” she asks, turning to face him while the water trickles down her back. She can see the hardness in his groin, growing larger and larger with every second she stands there wet and naked. 

“I am, actually,” he answers, not bothering to hide his desire. 

She turns to face the shower tap, one hand plastered to the wall while the other leisurely runs down her chest. Smooth and slick, she allows it to circle her breast, making sure August can see how her finger brushes the hardening peachy nipple before descending along her flat torso.

His breath becomes rigid, his eyes furiously focusing on how she praises her own body. Her lids are half-hooded, hazy with lust and her mouth is reddening and slight swelling as she bites into her plush lips with delight. He dares, taking a step closer, allowing himself to have a better view of the show. 

_It is_ for him after all, is it not?

Tender and slow like honey, she lets her fingers creep between her thighs. In her mind, she fancies larger hands taking control over her body. A man’s hands, hands that are rough and callous, counter to how she is built, yet they caress her gently, working their way up between her inner thighs and spreading her open. 

A feverish moan escapes her tightened lips as her fingers rub against her clit. She opens her eyes with her head thrown to the side. Giving August a lustful stare, cruel and full of snide she begins working herself with sensual strokes. She can feel her own wetness, thick and oily against her delicate fingers.

August’s nostrils flare, the bulge in his groin now enormous and aching for release. 

Does she think she is torturing him? Does she even know men?

He inches closer toward the shower, close enough until so his hand can touch the glass which is now covered with tiny droplets of water and a thin layer of steam. His hand falls toward the zipper of his trousers, letting it sink before reaching out to pull his erected cock. 

There is a smitten look upon her face, and an unpleasant chill runs through her spine as if she is intimidated by the sheer sight of him. Obviously, he is very much aware of how impossibly large he is. She gathers he is used to the look she is giving him, knowing exactly what’s going through her mind.

“Why are you stopping then, princess?” he asks her with a cocky smile, his large hand wraps around his hard cock, immediately beginning to stroke himself while eliciting deep, low groans that are surprisingly arousing. 

She can’t help but stare at how his hand engulfs his organ, feeling herself throb by the sight of the thick bulging veins and the ridges that run across his erection. When she started her little game she hardly felt this aroused and only wanted to abuse him. But now, the urge inside her has been replaced by desperation to fulfil something else. 

Looking at him as if driven to insanity, she lets her fingers massage her mound with increasing force, hard yet slow while her thumb traces the engorged nub. With every intent to let him see what he cannot take, she leans against the wall and parts her legs wide for him, letting him see her pink cunt and how her fingers play and tease while her other hand moves to squeeze her breast. 

Her mind escapes into fantasies again, to urge the tingling sensation that burns between her thighs. Betrayed by lust, it’s him that she sees, holding her down while the entire size of him enters her, inch by inch, splitting open her folds. 

It makes her yelp so loudly, that image triggering something unfamiliar inside her. Now all she can think of is him and as twisted as it makes her feel, the hopeless desire makes it impossible to think of anything else. 

August gasps repeatedly, his grunts are so loud he imagines the neighbours renting the other room can definitely hear them, despite the noise of running water. His cock swells larger, closer to ecstasy while he imagines that instead of his hand it was her he was fucking. He thinks of how sweet and wet her cunt would be, milking him with deprived need.

He leans his forehead against the glass, his breath coming out as steam against the glass while he stares at her working herself toward her orgasm. 

“Fuck!” she tries to fight the thought of him but her mind keeps flooding her with various ways in which he’d fuck her, how this man she hates would exploit her, hold her down with his big body and fuck her repeatedly. Despite her battle, she loses every sense, her orgasm is so intense it sends waves of pleasure that continue to hit her for several good seconds.

Seeing her panting with utmost pleasure, her eyes closed and her lips parted open with ecstasy, his control snapped. He throws his hand against the glass, shooting white ribbons all over it.

They stand in front of one another, both with heaving chests and frowning faces.

Finally, she turns the stream off and opens the glass door while August tucks himself back in. Apparent sweat covers his forehead while his chest is still heaving. She crouches to grab the robe, wearing it again while moving next to him with a teasing look on her face. 

Although her legs feel feeble, the adrenaline made the blood kickstart her body again, her heart pumping with excitement as life returned to her system. She pushes past August scornfully, letting him follow her as she walks out of the bathroom. 

He grabs her elbow, shooting her a warning glare. “Where do you think you are going?”

She tries to fight him but his grip is fierce and she is too weak.

“You are still a prisoner here,” he warns her and begins to lead her back to the bedroom and toward the bed while grabbing more rope on the way. He notices once again how she desperately seeks for her personal belongings, gun, and phone. 

“Don’t bother, it’s all at the bottom of the lake.” 


	5. Title: History of a Bad Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dark themes, kidnapping, gore, slight violence, mentions of sexual encounters, dirty words, sexual threats. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own August Walker or the mission impossible franchise

“Sit down,” August commands coldly, his hand pushing her bony shoulder, forcing her to sit on the bed. Ingvild’s behind lands on the mattress with a bounce, her gaze remaining on the strange menacing man as he moves through the room with harsh steps. An irritated look mars his face as he looks for something.

She exploits the sparse moment of false freedom, searching for his well-concealed arsenal. Liam’s words of wisdom from her days of training echo in her mind. _“There is always a slip,”_ an absentee of the mind. This large dangerous man might be an equal opponent yet he is just a man. 

And this agent of chaos had his plan interrupted, ironic as it may be. In his fine work of hiding most of the weapons from her reach, he remained negligent, keeping his handgun next to the laptop on his desk. 

_Keep in mind he carries that knife with him._ The scar on her torso should be a keen reminder.

“Can I at least have my undergarments back? Or do you plan to keep me here naked, Mr. Walker?” she calmly asks.

“I don’t plan to keep you.” August speaks with no real emotion in his voice. He has left her clothes to dry on the radiator throughout the night. Her tactical suit is still damp but her ridiculously small underwear and bra seem to have dried. He picks them up, then carelessly throws them at her face before grabbing the large medical kit. 

The garments are warm and pleasant to the touch. Ingvild manages to slip into her underwear beneath the bathrobe with haste before August returns to sit in his chair. 

Appearing determined, he unzips the blue medical bag, preparing some bandages and pulling out a bottle of antiseptic. “Open up,” he speaks, gesturing at the white cotton robe around her body. 

She stares at him oddly, her hands latching onto the fabric. 

He sighs, rolling his eyes at her. Fine lines of irritation are drawn on his forehead. “The bandage is wet and needs to be replaced. Do you want your wound to get infected?” 

Cautiously she observes him, wondering what brings a malicious man who tried to kill her only a few hours ago to tend to her wound. It seems like any action he performs is robotic, as if he is still in the CIA, following protocols. Curiosity sets her mind, driving her to follow his request with obedience and untie the cotton bind that holds the robe together. 

August keeps his leer on his face, whether she is frightened by him or not he can’t determine. She seems trained in hiding or faking her emotions.

_As most women are._

His fingers pry the robe open, just enough to uncover the fusty bandage on her torso. 

Carefully, his eyes descend from her face to her chest, unable to ignore the way the fabric hangs on the edge of her small perky breast. The roundness of it appears tempting enough to sink his teeth in and leave a nice, bleeding bite mark for another scar on that beautiful pure skin. 

_You love it when they’re pure._

He brushes that vampiric thought away, trying to keep a clear, indifferent mind as he begins to peel the medical tape from her pale flesh. 

The coldness on his face is mesmerizing. There is not an inch of care as he removes the old bandages and exposes her ghastly injury. The crescent line is bulging out, looking purple and irritated while the damaged skin around the area of the wound is white with a tint of blue. She stares at it with almost clinical fascination, her gaze tracing the shape and the amateur-looking stitches without saying a word.

_Not even a complaint about damaging her fine-looking body?_

“You haven’t answered my question.” His deep voice disturbs her exploration, forcing her to avert her gaze to his face. He is stern, focused on the wound as if he has any care for her well-being. Using the back of his fingers, he moves one side of the robe to further examine the status of the stitches. 

“Which one? You ask so many August, you’re like a really boring date.” 

If truth be told, the last 14 hours have been anything but boring. She kissed death on its fickle lips and was brought back to life by the devil himself to later share moments of carnal euphoria in front of one another. 

All in a day’s work. 

Yet she prevents him from having that pride, gifting him with snide in her voice and one of her trademark scornful smirks. He smirks back, giving her just as much as hatred in return while opening the bottle of alcohol and pouring some of it onto the sterile gauze. 

_Oh princess, I’m about to enjoy how much this is going to hurt._

“One: I asked you who Liam is.” he raises his voice and presses the damp gauze onto the wound without warning. His eyes shine with child-like anticipation, waiting for the scream that never leaves her controlled breath. The torment in her glassy grey eyes is apparent yet her face is stoic, not even a twitch of a muscle as she swallows her suffering and keeps her pride.

_Impressive_. 

“Let’s play a game then,” she suggests, her voice strained as she forces herself to speak without any sign of tremor from the searing pain that’s inflicted upon her. August cocks one eyebrow up, curious to hear her suggestion.

“Quid pro quo.”

His head tilts to the side, considering the idea. If anything, August Walker always loved to speak about himself, even when people didn’t know it was himself he was speaking of. Hiding behind the pseudonym of John Lark, he speaks about his horrifying actions as if he was some ghost or a myth, while all the glory was always his.

“Whatever.” He agrees to her terms and continues to wipe the wound clean, applying a wisp of more alcohol to cleanse the blood clots that formed around the stitches. He imagines this hurts like hell, if he was in her place right now he’d be squirming with agony yet she keeps her composure, eyes still as death.

Ingvild watches as he leans closer, his head nearly rests on her chest. He takes his time, patiently examining and cleaning the injury he inflicted on he. August Walker is a patient man. She takes a mental note before deciding to answer his question. “Liam is my job trafficker.”

“You mean your pimp?” he mocks her, his stormy blue eyes granting her a glimpse of his disrespectful reaction before he places the bloodstained gauze away. 

He is answered with silence, cold and unyielding, just like her. “Does he or anyone else know I’m here?” he asks, taking an antiseptic ointment and applying it onto a new piece of gauze.

“Are you not a man of your word, August Walker?” she asks and leans back as he presses the bandage onto the wound. “Quid pro quo, remember?”

_No, I am the great deceiver._

Her eyes are at him, claiming sincerity from a man who tried to lie and trick her from the moment they first met. But then again, she also was never honest with him to begin with, pretending to be just a girl when she was anything but. 

A deep arduous sigh escapes his mouth. He takes a larger piece of dressing and places it onto the wound to cover the entire area.

“Fine, ask away.”

She stares as he takes the medical tape and cuts it into smaller pieces, placing the first piece between her skin and the dressing. He then smooths his finger over the tape to keep the bandage tight on her wound.

“Why do you want to destroy the world, August Walker?” 

August pauses, lifting his eyes again to meet her face. She has her chin resting on her fist, staring at him with pure and sick fascination. Almost as if she’s excited to hear the history of this very bad man. It occurs to him in that very instant that the girl who was sent out to eliminate him has not a drop of idea of who she’s been sought out to hunt. _Typical Erica Sloane,_ he thought, _let the dogs sniff him out but tell them nothing._

“You really know nothing do you, little girl?”

“I got your file, it tells me everything about you: army service, height, weight, all your operations, skills, achievements, and ex-girlfriends. All the boring stuff.” She explains, watching the frown that forms on his face as if his ego is bruised. “I know that you tried to detonate a nuclear device almost a week ago, but I don’t know why, it’s as if, pieces of the puzzle are… missing?”

She nearly hisses as August places the last piece of tape on her dressing, the careful, clinical touch from before is now replaced by a crude, punishing one. “Did Erica mention what she did?” he asks, pressing his thumb against the tape to create more pressure. “Did she tell you about the rot in the CIA and the government? A system so biased and corrupt that it forces people like you to fall victim to the sickness the old world order created.” 

Ingvild watches him intently, ignoring the punishment his fingers wrongfully inflict on her wound as if she’s the one to blame. There is a blazing hot fury in his eyes but also an emotion she hasn’t seen before, deeming those ocean blues to look like an animal that was injured or stripped off of its pride. 

Curious, she thinks to herself while his thumb tightens another tape to her skin and slides onto her torso, grazing the naked skin unkindly. 

“I am going to fix the world, princess.” He answers with a rasp in his voice, glaring fiercely into those rain cloud eyes when something hard and cold pushes beneath his chin. The black barrel of a gun, of his gun, sinks into the softness of the tender flesh beneath his jaw.

There is a sick smile dancing on her face as she holds the gun to his face, her finger resting on the trigger, flirting with it while August stares at her in a mixture of surprise and fury.

“No you won’t,” she speaks, and pulls the trigger.

The empty metallic click rings in his ears, but not even a twitch or a wrinkle forms at his face as she pushes her finger against the little nub. She pulls the trigger for the second time and then for the third. All the lines in her brow become apparent, her eyes narrowed with hatred and frustration as she continues to shoot the unloaded gun with gritted teeth. 

August grabs her wrist tightly, pulling her hand away and forcing the gun out of her hand. “You really thought I didn’t see you take my gun?” He asks with an arrogant smirk on his face. “That I’d be stupid enough to leave a loaded gun unsupervised with a woman like you, **_princess_**?”

She utters a small growl, staring at him with deadly determination while trying to wrest her wrist free from his grasp to no use. “Stop calling me princess. I will kill you, August Walker.” 

August hisses with disrespect while staring deeply into her eyes, as if seeking for something in them. Her glare is bewitching. He imagines she has great power over every man who stands in her way like a black widow, luring her prey into the web. 

But he is not falling for these tricks. These days are long gone.

With the brisk move of his hands, her wrists are captured and she is forced flat onto the mattress. He places one knee over and shoves her crudely to lie straight between the pillow before slamming her hands onto the bars of the bed. There are no screams of fear or protest from her mouth, but small whispered grunts as she slightly squirms beneath him instead. 

It would have been so fun to break her, to strip her from her tightened control and expand her range of emotions to new heights of fear and suffering. But time is not his ally and he imagines it would take more than a few hours. 

With wrists so slender he manages to easily subdue her with one hand. Ingvild sucks her breath, watching as the large man hovers above her, appearing much larger and stronger than he did before. If not for her injury, she would have fought him and flipped him over before he knew it but he disarmed her without difficulty. He made her weak and it only makes her heart throb and her skin crawl with tingling anger. 

“Don’t try to fight me, it’s not gonna help,” he warns her as he reaches one lengthy arm to the nightstand where remnants of the rope are hidden. 

“Convenient,” she teases fearlessly and watches as he moves back and slings the rope over the bars and around her hands several times. His hand tugs at the binds, making sure it’s tight enough to make her hands turn white due to the blood circulation being cut off. The rope hurts her skin, her fingers splay succumbing to the pain and a small moan leaves her lush pink lips.

There it was, the sound he’s been waiting to hear all day long. She’s yielding to her suffering, letting the pain flow through her form. Letting go of the binds, his hand moves to hover above her face, the phantom of a memory of those same eyes soaked in pleasure in his mind. Ingvild stares back silently, yet the bemusement in her eyes is distinguished. She looks like an animal, unsure and untrusting of the predator who stands before her.

August allows his thumb to stroke her cheek, feeling the small flinch beneath the tip of his finger. He traces the outline of her jaw, giving her a small hazy grin. His lips inch closer to hers, his eyes shutting as he visibly inhales the scent of her body. “Don’t provoke me, angel, I won’t stop even if you cry.” 

Her eyes focus on the freckles at his nose, secretly counting them before her gaze drops to his lips, studying the shape beneath the coarse hair of his moustache. August awaits for that rewarding expression of fear to shadow her face yet she gives him not an inch of vulnerability. Twice he had the empty pit that is her soul naked. Once at the lake, the other in the shower. This is a woman he saw in two of her very worst moments in life yet her composure is a desert of ice. 

“Huh…” He huffs with intrigue and shifts away from the bed, leaving her captive and helpless with pain building in her wrists.

“Where are you heading next?” Ingvild teases, knowing she will not receive a solid answer. Her eyes follow August as he rushes through the room, trying to learn every detail that may provide a hint of where he is heading next.

Ignoring her he grabs the leather travelling bag, placing it on the desk and pausing as he begins to carefully calculate his steps. The sun highlights his tall frame as he stands still. Ingvild stares at how the light makes him look golden and almost god-like. 

“Will you just leave poor little me like this?” She asks with false sweetness on her tongue, her hands tugging the ties fruitlessly, making the bars shake and the pain in her wrists worse with the friction of the rope cutting into her skin.

August chuckles, turning to look at her as she attempts to provoke him. “Don’t worry love, housekeeping will pick you up at one point.”

He collects every item meticulously, sweeping through the room to make sure nothing is forgotten. The room appears tidier and organized than it was before he walked in, except of course, for the half-naked woman tied to the bed posts. 

_I’m sure it will make for some hilarious stories among the hotel staff._

His mobile phone buzzes, a message from _**Knight_of_Darkn3ss** _has been received. 

“Fucking idiotic nerd name.” He mutters and shakes his head as he opens the message:

> **_“I have arranged an exit point for you. The Love boat leaves in 2 hours. Better hurry, Lark.”_ **

“I’ll keep coming after you, Walker Texas Ranger…” She sounds peaceful as she makes her threat, as if she’s speaking politely of the weather or asking him about his day. “I always finish a job.”

He slips the phone back into his pocket and turns to stare at the girl who is no longer afraid to die. Now vamping with death instead, she lies relaxed in the sun-shower of the bed, surrounded by a sea of white sheets with red floral patterns. They look more like splatters of blood from where he is standing.

She doesn’t fight the bind that holds her anymore, remaining calm with her hands above her head like a sacrifice.

“Should I have left you to die then?” August asks darkly, making his advance toward her with long, heavy strides. His eyes are shadowed with lust for the kill, like a hunter that hunts for sport. He hovers above her once more, staring deep into those icy grey eyes. 

“I wanted to grant you the gift of always knowing I took your life and gave it back.” He answers cruelly and bites his lower lip. His hand hovers over her form, moving like a maddened composer. “Enjoy whatever life I gave you, sweet Ingvild. Don’t play the hero and try to save the world, or try chasing me. I won’t be merciful next time.”

A cold grin begins to spread across her face, slowly growing into vile laughter that thunders in his ears. “I don’t care if this world burns, let it go to ashes.” She stares at him sincerely, her grin now replaced by a determined hateful glare.

“All I care about is the job. I _**will**_ terminate you.” 

The world was indeed in her last concern. It was never kind to her and she cared very little about the stupid people who harboured it and even less about the ugliness and toxicity that it stenched from. Her only concern in life was to never fail a mission. And Liam, who was the only person she had what she believed to be a relationship of some sort. 

Bewildered and impressed by her brutal honesty, he nearly allows himself to fall deeper into the trap that is being offered in front of him. The temptation to delve deeper and seek those vulnerabilities, to rip her to shreds now when she is in her weakest moments. But he clears his mind from thoughts, forbidding them to pester him of ghosts from his previous life. He is a man on a mission and now he must leave the girl behind.

“Farewell, dear Ingvild.” 

Ingvild watches carefully, trying to comprehend his actions as he crouches above her, imprisoning her square chin with his forceful fingers. As he sinks closer, his breath caresses her skin, and she smells the scent of coffee and cologne mixed with his natural musk. Her heartbeats become abnormal as if preparing her body for battle. She tries to escape his grip as his fingers travel to her throat, realizing he means to snap her neck. 

But instead, she is assaulted by the tender brush of his lips, slow and feather-like they land onto hers. August feels a delicacy so tender that his instinct is to sink his teeth in it. Yet he reverts from it, pulling away before these thoughts grow into actions. 

Silence takes the room as he departs, making strong hasty strides while grabbing his travelling bag. Ingvild watches how his long coat flings in the air like a cape of a villain as he hurries to the door. He doesn’t look back, not even when he shuts the door, leaving her alone in the room with her lips tingling.

*~*~*

It took nearly 20 minutes to fight for her freedom. She tugged, pushed, and tore off the skin from her wrists until the wooden bars gave in before her hands did. At one point she felt as if she was close to blacking out. She was injured, starved, and dehydrated yet she endured. Adrenaline is spiking liquid in the tendons of her throat, keeping her fighting like a berserker.

Being beaten was a physical concept she never experienced before. She got her ass kicked in the past, during training, during a combat. But she won and bested every target. Even Liam who was heavier and skilled eventually fell on his back with her heel shoved onto his chest.

August Walker taught her the true meaning of failure and lack of control. The more thoughts of killing him sprang in her mind, the more it felt like butterflies that were locked fluttering in her chest. 

Dressed in her still damp suit and a pair of gloves, she unlocks the door to her apartment with a meek hand. She’s not so surprised to find Liam sitting on her couch with a look of disdain on his face, not even bothering to look concerned at her sickly pallor. 

She gives him an odd glare as she shuts the door behind her. “Were you waiting here all day long with the same face and didn’t move until the moment I walked in, or did you time this?”

“Where the hell were you? I couldn’t call or trace you,” Liam ignores her joke, giving her a stern glare while quickly observing her messy appearance. “This isn’t like you, Ingvild, you are not clumsy.” 

“I dropped my phone into the toilet while I was on a date,” she teases again, shaking her head at him with fake disbelief and then throws her key at the stand near the door. August’s folder is on the coffee table in the living room, just where she left it before leaving on her failed mission. 

She ignores Liam’s unsatisfied face, bouncing on her feet lightly and then sitting down next to the coffee table while grabbing the file to reread it.

Liam glares at her with a clenched jaw, his lips stretched to a thin line while he looks at the girl as she acts so juvenile. Legs crossed together while her eyes sift through the documents urgently, she tries to find anything that will give a clue. 

“You think this is a game? You know the terms of your contract, don’t make me remind you what happens if you fail.” He looks at her, reminded of the day he collected her from the orphanage, a weird little girl with a murderous look on her face. Much of her remained the same. The ability to know what really went through that complicated mind of hers was impossible..She was blocked, incapable of feeling anything but starvation in her heart. He only assumed it was for violence. 

“I want to read his manifest,” she lifts her gaze to meet Liam’s face. Curiosity is shining on her weary eyes. “Why was it not in the file?”

The older man shrugs, curling his mouth. “Sloane didn’t include it. It’s irrelevant to your mission. Have you made any progress in tracking him?” 

“I was naked in bed with him,” she answers nonchalantly, giving him a fake smile and then returning her eyes to the section on the file that mentions his past relationships. Her finger travels down through the list, mouthing the names of his many conquests. No wonder they called him “The Hammer”. There were so many of them. 

“Are you going to answer me, Ingi?” 

“I need a new phone and I need to get to England tonight if possible.” She finally answers, closing the file and jumping to her feet which she immediately regrets for the astonishing pain in her torso. All day long, since the moment she opened her eyes to find herself in August’s bed, all she wanted to do was throw up from the pain and scream into a pillow. 

Liam gets up from his seat as well, the older man towering above her and taking a step forward while studying the determination on her face. “What’s in London, girl?” 

“A lead.” 


	6. Stargazer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't owe August Walker or the mission impossible Franchise

The love boat sets sail through the cold waters of the North Sea. The apostle _Knight_of_Cockn3ss_ or whatever that kid’s name was, wasn’t joking when he mentioned that it’s a romantic cruise. **  
**

It’s midday. August walks the deck, wearing a beige fedora on his head to match his cream-coloured suit. He grips his laptop in his right hand, not daring to leave it out of his sight even for a minute. His eyes observe the surroundings; he must be the only single person on this trip, surrounded by timid couples on the verge of divorce and sugar daddies with their sugar babies.

At least the young girls are pretty. He greets a tall blonde, holding one hand behind his back and giving her a small bow before continuing on his way.

He’ll have to endure this trip for a couple more days which isn’t ideal by any means, but he can’t risk getting caught or killed. Airports all over the world will be swarming with security, agents, and assassins on really fucking high alert, waiting for him.

The irony of the situation is that he used to be one of the agents being deployed. A wanted target on a scale of world catastrophe would spin a web of agents worldwide. But he always gets there first. That’s why they called him “The Hammer” - he nailed each target on the head, among other things.

No one cared about torture and extreme violence. He once brought back a target in such a dire condition that Erica was forced to send him to psych evaluation. He bluntly told the psychiatrist he enjoys the violence for no particular reason why, and then fucked her over the desk.

He scoffs at the memory, shaking his head.

Standing on the rail, he stares into the blue horizon, watching the trail of foam that the boat makes as it slices through the water, disturbing the peaceful life beneath the sea. His chaotic mind begins to drift away, thoughts of the CIA reminding him of her.

Her golden hair was glowing like sand on a summer day. She joked about buying a yacht, telling Erica to fuck off and leave everything, and sail across the ocean in complete freedom.

Memories are perfidious. Why has she been on his mind so much as of late? She’s been dead for years, the worms and the insects ate up her flesh and now she is no more but a sack of rotting bones.

To condemn her memory is more than she deserves.

His mind then wanders to the girl who lived. Snorting silently and shaking his head, he thought of how he left her: half-naked and tied to the bed, probably crying to whatever father figure she has.

After what he did to her, she’ll probably retire from Icarus.

His mind returns to those small adorable threats. “I’m coming after you,” he mimics her voice in his head, laughing as he turns toward the small lounge of beach chairs, finding it nearly empty as most of the lovebirds are on lunch. Unlike the degenerated visitors of this cruise, he is here solely on business. Much work is left to be done. “Knight” has promised to meet him in London’s sky tower, suggesting he may or may not have a source of plutonium. Whether he’s a broker, a source, or a possible troll matters very less to a man on the run.

Desperate times are ahead; while he knows he is sticking his neck out and might be stepping into a trap, there is very little choice left for him.

_This is not the type of anarchy I wished for._

Ingvild was the first to come. There will be more, endless more until the world will fall apart. 

_“I’ll keep coming after you.”_ Her voice hinges on his troubled mind.

He opens his laptop and shakes his head, trying to ignore the truth that lays like a pile of heavy brick on his thoughts.

_You should have left her pretty face to die._

“Oh, but to miss on all the fun that followed in that bedroom?” he speaks to himself quietly, unlocking his laptop with a retinal scan. His old drive is still accessible on the cloud server he encrypted.

Years of work and dirt collected on the CIA and the government nestles on that server. The ugly truth, the lies, the corruptness. Thick and black like tar.

Erica Sloane has her own special folder. Personal vendetta was never on his agenda, but he enjoyed hurting others if they got in the way. However, to seek vengeance against one person was to be a frivolous fool.

Yet she deserved it, more than anyone. He hopes that at least once he detonates the nuclear weapon and this world shall fall, she’ll have her front-row seat to see her failures raining down like fire through the sky.

A vicious smirk paints his face as his fingertips slide onto the touchpad, he scans through the many folders, seeking a specific one regarding illegal weapon deals. It would be a lovely afternoon at the CIA had one of these recordings or documents finding their way into the public eye.

He moves the cursor around, entering one of the CIA’s subfolders when his smile slowly fades away. He thought he deleted her folder a long time ago, but it seems he mistakenly placed it in another section instead.

And now here it is. A name he thought he’d never see again: Lacey.

The cursor hovered over her folder. Strange, he hardly even remembers what she really looked like. It must have been six years ago? Seven? In his dreams, she’s always a rotting corpse. But the mind has a tendency to alter one’s memory. Was she even sweet at all?

_Manipulation was her strongest trait anyway._

He deletes the folder, sending it to the recycle bin and proceeds to search for the file he meant to leak. He muses if they caught up with the notion that it was him who poisoned their water this entire time. For years he stirred chaos from his laptop at his bed and watched how Sloane and her high-ranking management bodies did all that’s in their power to cover it up.

It was so hard to keep a poker face and to pretend he is trying to help. One particular time, he got so ecstatic he had to go and jack off in the men’s room. 

His attention is abruptly interrupted by something that makes his heart shudder.

_It can’t be, is that...?_

A petite brunette passes through the small lounge, walking joyfully along the deck, her hair tucked back into a ponytail. It can’t be her, not in the situation he left her at. And by what dark magic would she exactly appear here out of nowhere?

_I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be some sort of a witch._

The brunette feels his gaze upon her and turns. Her eyes are brown, warm, unlike the sharp icy glare that was Ingvild’s trademark. She’s less pretty too but looks like she’s at the same age, perhaps a year or two younger.

Another sugar baby, appearing weary and discontent.

August must have been staring at her with a dumbfounded look on his face that she decides to smile back and make her way to him.

“Good afternoon,” she greets in a Midwestern accent. She’s wearing makeup, too much makeup. In his mind, he imagines himself wiping that cotton candy pink lipstick away with his thumb.

“Afternoon,” he smiles kindly in return, tipping his fedora at her with a welcoming bow.

Always the gentleman.

The young woman moves to sit on the seat in front of him, crossing her legs together as she takes in his sight, observing and assessing how old he is and how much money he has.

Probably looking for a new target.

_Not old enough to be your daddy, but you can still call me that if it floats your boat._

“Are you a secret agent?” she jokes playfully, peering at his laptop before he smooths his hand on the lid and shuts it, pretending to be intrigued by her senseless, obvious seduction when his mind once again compares her to Ingvild.

It seems like he can’t get away from her. Perhaps her threats were a curse? Even halfway across the sea, a total stranger reignites his curiosity.

Ingvild has no values, no empathy toward others.

He wonders if she was capable of caring at all.

She did experience fear in those little moments when his knife penetrated her: the look in her eyes, like a virgin, fucked extremely rough for the very first time.

Thinking of those big, terrified eyes lights up a smile on his face.

And she finally showed him an inch of vulnerability in that farewell kiss. She had such a lost look on her face like she couldn’t fit that emotion into any drawer inside her brain. It made her look so much more beautiful. He wonders what she would have looked like if he fucked her.

_Maybe she’d finally break into tears. Fuck, I’d love to see her cry._

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” He interrupts the sassy brunette as she speaks of Lord knows what. It seems that she doesn’t even realize he wasn't listening to her at all for the last 5 minutes. She smiles sweetly, tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear. The diamond bracelet on her wrist moves as she does.

“Suzie.”

“Suzie,” he repeats her name and smiles charmingly before giving his lips a quick flick with his tongue. “Would you like to join me in my room?”

The brunette pretends to blush beneath the layers of foundation on her face and fakes an argument inside her mind as if she actually considers refusing his bold suggestion.

~*~

Back in his room, August pushes the petite brunette to her knees. His hand forcefully wipes her makeup away, smearing the neon pink lipstick with his thumb. To which she giggles at, thinking she’s probably used to men doing worse things to her by now.

_Oh, darling, we haven’t even started yet._

His hand traces her rounded face, knuckles brushing against her cheek tenderly, running down to meet her lips again.

“Open up sweetheart,” he commands in a relaxed voice, his index finger demanding entrance to her velvety mouth. She spreads her lips open slowly, allowing him to slip in his long digit to explore the wet cavern while his thumb caresses her chin. Much to his delight, she sucks his finger, moaning as he slowly moves it in and out of her hot mouth.

“Good girl,” he praises her, his free hand reaching to unbuckle his belt urgently and free his aching cock from his trousers. He tugs at himself for a second, staring how she suckles on his finger with fake devotion. He assumes she probably wants his cock, but it’s his money that she’d care about more later.

_Oh, how disappointed she’ll be once we’re off this boat._

“How about I’ll fuck that pretty little throat, hm?” August asks and without waiting for an answer, pulls his soaked finger away and clasps his hand around the hollows of her cheeks instead, forcing her to keep her mouth open.

She voices no protest, only her eyes staring at him wide and helpless. He pays no attention, preferring to look at his cock sliding in between her lips and pushing into the warm depths instead. The groan that slips out of his mouth is prolonged, emphasizing the pleasure of finally getting his dick wet.

Usually, he loves to watch, yet he lets his eyes roll back and shuts them tightly this time, hearing her gag in the background. He ignores the sound and fucks her throat with more vigour, his hands saddling her head, forcing her to meet the violent thrust of his hips.

“Don’t touch me!” He rasps breathlessly, feeling her hands snaking onto his waist. She immediately pulls away, terrified of the violence in his voice. His eyes remain shut yet he can feel the wetness on the sides of her cheeks as his thumbs latch against them while forcing her head back and forth. Tears are enough to send him over the edge, as he comes into her throat without any warning, grunting a couple of times and lingering inside to make sure she’ll swallow him clean.

The cloud of fantasy fades as he blinks his eyes open. Debunked by a plastic-type of woman. He pulls his cock out slowly, carefully, looking at the mascara that’s smeared beneath her now red eyes. His thumb wipes her lower lip and then gives her chin a gentle pinch while offering her a smile.

She gives him a weak smile back, trying to look satisfied while remaining on her knees. He can tell she’s pretty much half-through into realizing she made a mistake following the devil into his room.

The tall, menacing man looks at her with wickedness. He moves to sit on the queen size bed, petting the empty spot next to him. She follows, fighting her instincts to put a hand on his knee as she is used to, afraid that he will yell at her again.

“Tell me, Suzie,” he coaxes, taking his leather wallet from his pocket and drawing out a condom.

“Have you ever tried anal sex?”

****

“Ingvild,” the old man repeats her name as he brings her to her new home. A simple, minimalist apartment with naked walls and generic black furniture.

She looks at him silently, holding her small luggage between her hands. It has everything that she possesses in the world. A bunch of plaid skirts, white buttoned shirts, and some books about fairies and monsters.

Is he to be her new father? He never even offers her a smile or looks into her eyes, just grunting and sighing as he makes his way around the house, gesturing for her to follow him.

At least he was kinder than Mother Superior. At least in here, no girl is going to pick any fighters with her and get her into trouble.

“This is your room.” Liam gestures, pointing inside. The pubescent girl peeks inside with curiosity. It’s not a girl’s room, it seems more like the rooms at the orphanage. It contains a single bed with a thin mattress and white metal bars. On the bed are some casual clothes for her to wear.

There was also a small library housing some books and a learning desk with a computer Probably for her to gain some knowledge of the world. She never had any of that at the orphanage, just the bible.

“Today you can have some rest,” he speaks to her, watching as she moves to place her luggage inside and sits on the bed, looking around the joyless room.

“Tomorrow, you will start your first day of training.”

 _Training?_ She says nothing, only glares quietly. She is very much aware there is no woman present in the house. The orphanage never let single parents adopt, especially not men, but perhaps Mother Superior was so desperate to get rid of her that she decided to throw her at the first person who asked.

“Just so we’re clear, girl, I am not your father. You call me Liam, alright?”

She nods silently and watches as he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. She lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, wondering what sort of new life has she been sold to.

“Ingvild,”

She hears a voice call to her again, the weight on the small bed suddenly shifting. As she turns her face to the side she sees August, wearing a cold smile on his face while climbing on the bed beside her.

*~*

She breathes in sharply as the plane’s wheels finally hit the ground with force, waking her up from her dream. How arrogant of August to invade my dreams, she muses. She pays no attention to why he was there. Analyzing dreams was never her thing. They were just memories of random things that happened to her in her childhood, and obviously he had been on her mind for the last 72 hours, he was a job after all.

One that she needed to get over with.

Liam was at her throat, nagging her like an old woman. She never left a job unfinished, and especially, in this case, it wasn’t an option.

Massaging her strained neck, she waits for the last person to leave the plane, observing the empty cabin and noticing how used and exploited it looks with all the crumpled, empty snack bags lying on the floor.

 _How ungrateful,_ she thinks to herself before exiting her seat and tip-toeing to get her luggage.

The arrivals terminal is infested with agents. She sees right through their casual attire, so fake they almost look like B-movie actors. It’s those badly selected outfits and the observant gazes. Eyes obsessively focused on every gate. She imagines that every airport in the world is the same right now since no one knows where he’s headed, not even her and she spent the night with him, sort of.

_As if he would be stupid enough to travel by plane._

With such a high profile target like August on the loose, it started to feel like the world is on the brink of war.

_Wasn’t it what he wanted anyway? To be an anarchistic god that plows chaos everywhere?_

That’s why he gave her life back, she muses. To humiliate her, to show her how easily he could disrupt everything.

_“Remember that you’re only alive because I have allowed it.”_

The wound in her torso sears with sudden pain as the phantasm of his low voice plays through her mind. It makes her slow down her steps and chews on her inner cheeks to suppress a moan that has been begging to escape her lips since yesterday afternoon.

 _August Walker_ , the name rolls on the tip of her tongue. Her very first failure, the very first man who killed her.

It felt as if they almost shared a bond now, something intimate and twisted. He went deeper than any other man ever did, literally: her internal organs. Perhaps that is why she “performed” for him in the shower, why she thought of him, slipping inside her only this time with his cock.

She passes through a couple reuniting with passion, her shoulder bumping against the woman’s arm. The woman yells at her but she ignores it, not asking for forgiveness, not even bothering to look back. She puts on her sunglasses and continues to head for the exit.

The wound throbs, even more, all of a sudden, making her swallow the dryness in her throat. Just when she thinks she can allow herself to give in to the pain, even only for a small second, her new mobile device vibrates in her jacket pocket.

An incoming call from Liam. He is the only person who ever had her number, after all.

“Yes, papa?” She answers, finally seeing the big exit sign in front of her eyes.

She can see him rolling his eyes without having to see his grumpy face. “What progress do you hope to find with this lead? Someone thinks they saw him in Singapore yesterday, you should be following these threads instead.”

She holds her breath, knowing very well it’s impossible. August was with her yesterday, so close she could have tasted him, his fingers digging deep into her flesh. Even though he feels like something quite demonic, she doubts he can be at two different places at once.

“I need access to his world, I need to pick up the clues.” She explains, yet the sad truth is that she has no idea what to look for. August did a fine job leaving zero clues at that bed and breakfast room. Not even the receptionist who ogled her oddly when she left could tell her where he was heading. 

“Just get it done, Ingvild. You’re acting like a teenager, this isn’t like you.” He muttered before hanging up.

He was right, it wasn’t like her. She felt hooks in her guts, not just the pain from the wound August inflicted upon her, but something deeper, more desperate, leaving a void in that same spot. The fact that he slipped between her fingers tormented her, just as much as the fact that she lied to Liam for the first time. It made her to feel like a rebellious teenager. She never keeps secrets from him and there she was, lying through every word.. 

She presses her fingers against her lips as she walks toward the airport exit.

~*~

The address led her to a small suburban house in south London. It’s the type of house that has large glass windows where anyone standing outside can ogle freely. Rich people house, as she liked to call it. She had a few missions with people living in homes like this - always an easy kill.

Through the wide glass, she can see a blond woman walking about in her nightgown, preparing for bedtime probably. According to Walker’s file, she’s his most recent ex. They broke up a couple of months before he decided to go on what he thought would be his final mission. His deathstrike.

_If only._

Ingvild stands from the gravel path that leads to a large metal door. She learns this woman’s delicate movements and graceful gestures as she walks through the house to place food for her large Maine coon cat.

_Is that the type of woman he likes?_

August would probably fuck anything that has a heartbeat but when it comes to actual relationships, he apparently had more than a few. She wonders if this is what he actually wants, noticing how Sydney looks more like a woman than a girl. A solid income, a big name lawyer, a woman who can take care of herself, a woman to start a family with.

Not that she imagines Walker starting a family anytime soon.

She is pretty too, with her mid-length straight golden hair, bright eyes and a shapely body. Ingvild looks at her outfit: jeans and sneakers and a black sleeved shirt, nowhere as classy as August’s ex.

The hour is late yet she walks toward the door and rings the bell.

The woman opens the door, narrowing her green eyes at Ingvild with suspicion. She gives one of her fake smiles instead, trying to look as charming and pleasant as a sweet doll.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a Welsh accent she tries to hide. 

“Sydney Bedford?” Ingvild asks, looking at the woman who stands in the doorway up and down to nip at every single detail. She tries to imagine what August liked about her the most. “I have some questions about August Walker, he used to…”

Sydney shakes her head, waving her hands in the air. Something in her eyes changes drastically. “Are you MI6!? Please, I don’t want to speak about that psychotic loser anymore.”

Ingvild smiles, a soft chuckle leaving her mouth. “Oh you see, he disappeared…”

“Good riddance!” Sydney replied, her eyes filling with anger, her face turning red within seconds. “Listen. I already told them everything.”

“Please,” Ingvild stops her, batting her long lashes and tilting her head. “I’m new and my superior will be made. May I please come inside? It’s important for my investigation.”

She presumes the same childlike charm that works on men so well might also, in this occasion, work on a woman, for different reasons. Sydney is a single 36-38-year old woman who lives alone with her cat.

She must have wanted a family with Walker, no wonder she’s furious.

Leaning against the door frame, she looks at the young girl up and down, believing she is younger than she really is with that pale smooth face and innocent greyish eyes. 

“Come on in, dear.” Sydney opens the door wide, letting Ingvild step inside before closing the large metal door behind her. The main entrance is into a large living room, furnished with a black leather sofa and a glass coffee table. She owns a TV that is larger than Ingvild's entire living room. The walls are moulded with grey bricks, shiny from some cut stone.

She wonders how lovely it would feel to smash August’s skull against that stone. 

“Would you like some tea?” Sydney suggests while heading toward her luxurious kitchen.

“Please,” Ingvild answers, walking around the house and examining every corner to learn of the woman who invited her in. She nearly stumbles as the large cat rubs against her foot. “Oh,” she exclaims, lowering herself to pick the chubby feline her arms.

She never had a pet in her life. Liam said it would be unnecessary.

“So as I said.” Sydney calls from the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove. “I don’t know anything about August and where he is. All I can tell you is that he was weird.”

“Weird? How?” Ingvild asks, stroking the cat behind his ears and feeling him purr against her chest.

Sydney places two mugs on the black marble counter in the kitchen and opens a cabinet, looking for some tea bags. “He would disappear and then return after weeks, telling me not to ask any questions. Then, he would go away and come back in crazy hours, and he was unkind, and arrogant, never taking no for an answer.”

Ingvild turns to look at her, crooking up her eyebrow as if she doesn’t understand the true meaning of the sentence. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Sydney shouts back, putting the tea bags into the mugs and then turning to look at Ingvild.

“Everything had to go his way, I am also convinced that he had a mistress or another family or maybe an illegal drug practice.”

Ingvild lets the cat jump down from her arms and brushes the grey hairs that are now stuck to her black shirt. “Why is that?”

“Like I said, disappearing in the middle of the night. I… I shouldn’t tell you this, you’re an agent!” Sydney looks around her, as if she’s afraid someone might be listening to their conversation.

Ingvild takes a step forward into the kitchen, her grey eyes seeking Sydney’s, giving her a warm smile. “You can tell me anything Sydney, you are not in danger. We just want to locate Walker, he hasn't reported to HQ in a while.”

Sydney observes her gaze, trying to determine her personality. She looks like a kind young woman, with those unique pretty eyes and the hair that’s tucked back in a messy bun.

“I had him traced,” she whispers. “I know I wasn’t supposed to because he is CIA, and trust me I was scared but I had to.”

“How did you do that?” Ingvild asks, tilting her head with curiosity and slight disbelief. It seems odd that a man like Walker was bugged by this shallow lawyer woman.

“I did his laundry, it wasn’t hard to hide something inside the pocket of his jacket. I mean, inside the fabric, where he can’t find it.”

Ingvild can’t help but let out a small snort, amused by the fact that a CIA agent got traced so easily. She covers her face with her fist, smiling into it slightly, clearly noticed by Sydney who stands in front of her, staring oddly.

“And where did he go?”

“Some place in South Kensington, almost every day, for the last month of our relationship. He would vanish there for hours and then come back. I have the address, hold on.” Sydney leaves the kitchen and walks through a long corridor.

Not bothering to be polite, Ingvild follows her, sneaking around like a cat, carefully exploring this new territory. She imagines the fights August would have with this woman and then the sex afterwards. Her hand runs against the texture of the garnet brick wall as she follows Sydney into the bedroom.

“Oh!” Sydney exclaims, confused to see Ingvild in her bedroom. The young woman looks around the room, trying to find any memorabilia from August. A photo, a clothing article. It seems he’s never even been here even though this cold sense of style seems like something he might appreciate.

“He also did trading or something,” Sydney says as she hands her over a small yellow note that was hidden in her purse. It has the address to August’s _“secret lover”._

Ingvild takes the notes, memorizing the address before placing it in her jeans pocket. “Trading? Can you elaborate?”

She shrugs. “He asked me to not disturb him while he was doing some dealing, I don’t know what it was… it looked fishy but it might just be CIA stuff.”

Ingvild nods silently. Her eyes observe the room again, focusing on the bed with curiosity. Her mind fill in the gaps, painting an image of August fucking Sydney into oblivion. His muscular body ramming into her, one leg held over shoulder while that blond bitch screams.

“How was he in bed? Would you say he performed well?” Ingvild asks, her eyes gesturing toward the mattress.

Sydney frowns at her, giving her a slight repulsed face as she finds her question remarkably rude. “How is this relevant to the investigation?”

Ingvild smiles, her kind smile suddenly becoming harsh, unpleasant. She remains silent, taking a step toward Sydney, who stumbles back with concern. Fear begins to sneak in and take over her mind as Ingvild continues to close the distance between them, her nostrils slightly flaring as she catches up the scent of her expensive perfume.

“Is this relevant to the MI6?!” Sydney asks again, trying to relieve the tension.

“I never said I am MI6.”

Sydney’s back hits the wall. She attempts to flee but Ingvild’s hands grip at her shoulders, forcing her against the wall with a thud. As small as this woman is, she seems to be quite strong and terrifying.

“How was he in bed?” she asks again, her voice becoming more demanding as she stares directly into her eyes. “Did he satisfy you?”

Sydney shudders, her eyes widen as she looks at Ingvild. “He was… umm.. Rough?”

“Bondage?”

“He... he..he choked me,” she answers in a trembling voice, her lower lip quivering, her eyes becoming glassy, much to Ingvild’s delight. “He was hurting me, he was too rough, like he enjoyed my pain and he never stopped.”

Ingvild licks her lower lip, imagining Sydney thrown on the bed with August treating her like some bitch, wrecking her body completely. Bruises left everywhere, tattoos on her skin for the world to see this fine artist’s work. A slight shiver tickles at her spine, crawling down to the small of her back.

She’s uncertain why.

“Would you say he loved you?”

Sydney looks at her quietly, thinking of her answer for a few seconds. Ingvild fingers bury into her collarbone, voicelessly demanding a response.

“August Walker is incapable of love. He is dead inside.”


	7. How do you want me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Mission Impossible Franchise or August Walker

The room feels cozy, protected by cherry wood walls and thick braces latched to corners of the ceiling. It’s been a while since she felt warm. A thick white blanket embellished by a red Scandinavian floral print hugs her bare body. It has an odd sensation to it, almost too mellow. She wants to sink into the comfort the bed provides and forget all her problems, Icarus, and August Walker.

But a buzzing noise breaks into her state of ease. As if there is a hornets’ nest hidden somewhere under the bed, it keeps worsening, clattering in her bones. The more she tries to brush the anxiety away, the more it begins to transform into a new sound. Like a clock ticking, louder and louder, drumming inside her brain. 

The pattern on the blanket doesn’t look like flowers anymore. It looks like blood splatters. 

A sudden gust of wind onslaughts her, the blanket sliding onto the hardwood floor. It leaves her naked in the harsh daylight for **his** wicked appreciation. The living god who stands at the edge of the bed, every breath emphasizing his pure masculinity. Shadow and light flow from his impressive naked figure while a Cheshire grin paints his face. 

Ingvild prepares to fight him yet her hands appear to be paralyzed. Lifting her gaze back, she realizes she is bound by ropes to the wooden bars she broke in the past. His smirk deepens, one cheek rising up in victory as he climbs onto the bed. His blue eyes preying on her, his hands grasps her feet, throwing her legs apart. In her chest she feels the need to resist but her muscles remain dormant as he crawls between her thighs. 

_No, I don’t want it._

August shifts himself on top of her, his large palms capturing her face as he leans in to kiss her deeply. Hot and wet, his tongue penetrates her mouth, stealing the breath he gave her. 

_Stop._

He breaks the kiss and spits on his fingers. Ingvild sees the beaming leer on his face as his hand reaches down to her groin, smearing his saliva between her delicate petals only to find out she’s already soaked, her lips ripe with an open invitation for him.

“You want this.” his eyes shine with bliss, lips parting open into a smile full of sharp teeth.

“No, I don..” 

She breaks into a gasp, overwhelmed as he sinks himself inside her inch by inch. A low growl tickles her ear as his head lowers to the side of her head, his breath hot against her neck. She can feel her body lifting beneath him, demanding more of his skin against hers. 

No words form on her tongue, only embarrassing animal-like wails as August drives between her thighs, eliciting guttural grunts with every shove. Her ankles kick into the mattress, wrists hurting as she tugs and fights for her freedom. His palms cage her face one again, forcing her to gaze into his stormy blue eyes.

“You want me.”

She wakes with a loud gasp, her upper body snaking up from the single bed as if possessed by some demonic force. No longer in Bergen, but in an unfamiliar bed–a cold, compact AirBNB apartment. Mundane and practical. Rented for the next following week of her short stay.

Lying on her back, her breath is heavy, her body still tingling from the disturbing dream. She never dreamt of anything but her past. Nothing ever gave her nightmares, up till now.

_August Walker **is** the devil._

Fury throbs at her core, a desperate need hinges at her nerves, so powerful it dims her senses. She feels the wetness coating her womanhood. Slippery and slick, awaiting something that’s out of reach. Hazy and meek she slips her fingers below, finding their way between her inner thighs, flirting with the swelling arousal.

Sweat glistens between her thighs, golden and thick like maple in the dimmed candlelit room. Keeping herself in the penumbra of light, her knees push together violently as her hand strokes between her legs. She tells herself she doesn’t want it, but the need suppresses her resistance effortlessly.

Her mind continues to remind her of the cruel dream. Of August grinding heavy on top of her, his scent vivid in her memory, inching her into a sensation that’s impossible to struggle with. The climax is so sweet, her entire body shivers at once as her cunt clenches around an empty void. Howling gasps leave her throat in a delicate, vulnerable voice. 

It makes her feel like a sinner, self-loathing surges through her tendons just like the orgasm that ruptured between her lips. Trying to brush any reasoning of these thoughts, she rolls on her belly, wiping her fingers clean on her bare thigh and grabbing her laptop while still catching her rapid breath. 

Covered by sweat and lying on her belly, she opens the screen and stares as the bright red loader appears on the screen. The dark web is Icarus’ playground, just as much as it’s “Lark’s” and his apostles. All information and communication between agents stream through undetected, and information of agents, targets, last known locations, even dirty little lascivious sex videos can easily be found here. 

It was the dark web that taught her of golden showers, something she regrets to this day.

Yet somehow, within this vast ocean of information, her efforts to find any information on “Lark” seems nearly impossible. As arrogant as August is, he is smarter than he looks. 

The day before, she managed to find a server that she hopes to be related to him. **_Machiavelli’s the prince_**. “It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.” she cites, wondering if August would find both her intelligence and resourcefulness impressive, right before she’ll put a bullet between his beautiful blue eyes. 

Her request to join the room is yet to be approved. Impatiently she stares at the little notification box every few seconds, hoping to be added to the server. Luckily, she has more than just waiting to do. 

Blondie Sydney, as dumb as she may be, gave her an idea on how she might track August. 

Sydney mentioned August was trading all the time, but never mentioned what or who he did his bidding with. Ingvild’s intuition tells her to examine the black market. If August is really intent on finishing his little apocalypse project, he would be scouring the market for plutonium.

_Oh, to reign in hell._

The black market may not offer exact locations, but she won’t need one anyway. The IP addresses were traceable. All she needs now is to find information about a buyer or a seller and she is set.

Her eyes skim through the list, ignoring the disturbing “quality” material being offered by insidious personas. Narrowing the search she manages to find three dealers and a broker. He calls himself **Knight of Darkn3ss**.

_Sounds like a cockstain._

She rolls her eyes and mocks the name, shaking her head with disbelief of what she is forced to do. Yet she clicks his profile to examine the groups this person is a member of: government officials, leaked government lies, MILFs, sluts for hire.

_For fuck’s sake._

Just when she is close to losing her cool, she sees **_Machiavelli’s the prince_** on the list. Her eyebrow crooks up. Might be something, might be nothing. At this point she is willing to tear herself limb by limb to find even a piece of thread. She clicks the little direct message icon and writes him a private mail.

Waiting to be answered, she pins her eyes to the black and white photo of August that is now plastered to the mirror in her hotel room with a piece of duct tape. Those bright eyes return her gaze, as if he is present in the room with her, taunting her with his smug face. Her body begins to tingle, as if she is sitting naked on that bed. She grabs the 9mm pistol that’s laid on the nightstand next to the bed and directs it at the image. 

“Pew pew!” she utters playfully, and then places the gun back down while still staring at the hideous man. 

A small chime emits from her laptop, redirecting her focus to the screen. A message from Knight.

> **_Knight of Darkn3ss: Selling?_ **
> 
> **_Kitten-mittens: Selling._ **
> 
> **_Knight of Darkn3ss: Send me your coordinates._ **
> 
> **_Kitten-mittens: May I be joined to the Machiavelli group first?_ **

Another chime rings in the half empty room as the generous Knight allows her request to join the group. 

If she had a heart, it’s probably singing right now.

But instead, it’s the wound in her torso that oddly begins to itch the instant she walks through the gates of the forbidden server. Leaning closer with determination dancing on her face, she seeks for a member named “Lark” among the users list. Her nose nearly bumps against the screen, her breath steaming on the glass as she slides her fingers on the touchpad.

There he is, all pixels and glory, **_J_Lark@1983._**

Like a maddened bitch, her eyes grow wide as she clicks his profile. Curiosity sears through her gut and her ears throb as the blood gushes to her brain. He is almost close enough to touch, yet oh so far away. However, his profile is empty but for a PDF file attached to the server’s database. It hardly weighs more than 13kb.

_His manifest?_

Sloane has been eager to keep this information censored. Even though Liam claims Ingvild always lacked ideals, a certain hunger keeps growing in her brain, festering like a rotting fruit. August has latched himself into her consciousness; it was only fair to peek inside his wretched mind and learn more of his motives. 

She clicks the download button and while waiting for the file to completely load, alters back to her chat with Knight to send him her coordinates. It occurred to her that she doesn’t have spare plutonium to sell at the moment, yet she hopes to keep Knight under the veil enough to get closer to August. He may not choose her as a seller, yet he might still provide her enough hints of his whereabouts.

The file finishes loading within seconds and his manifest unravels on her screen, the light of the white pages reflecting on her glassy eyes as she begins reading. Her lips voice his words silently. She leans her hand on her elbow and tilts her head while her fingers twirl a lock of her brown hair with earnest fascination. 

_No wonder Sloane keeps this hidden._

The ringing tune of a new message plays in her ear once again, interrupting her concentration, and causing her to jump with slight shock.

> **_Knight of Darkn3ss: I may be able to arrange a meeting for the two of you. You’re both in London._ **

_Well. If ain’t Lady Destiny again._

~*~

The hall is surrounded by nothing but vast glass walls and comfy seats for visitors to take selfies at rather than enjoy the city view. From the tall sky tower you can see the entire London skyline from each side. The queen’s palace and the beautiful green parks can be seen here. The grey and blue mirrored skyscrapers are also visible, the sigil of capitalism which he finds as offensive as the churches and pointless palaces. 

_An old world that must fall._

August sits at a round metal table next to the glass wall while drinking his espresso with a bitter glare on his face. He wears a fedora and sunglasses to hide his appearance as much as possible, looking like a retro moviestar from the 40s. His hand strokes the stubble of his square chin down his throat, musing if they’ll think he is stupid enough to visit a tourist landmark.

Knight of Darkn3ss is already 20 minutes late and if there is something August can’t stand, it’s having his time taken for granted especially when every minute spent outside his safe house puts him at risk of being targeted.

Shaking his head he opens his laptop, hiding his head behind the screen. There is a small chime indicating his received notifications. A new recruit has joined his server.

_Kitten-Mi… I swear, these names are getting more and more ridiculous._

He rolls his eyes and skim through new messages before sending Knight an angry one asking him where the fuck is he. 

Girlish laughter distracts him from his fury as a group of four young women passes in front of him, heading to the small cafe at the center of the hall. His gaze immediately sets upon them as they find themselves a square table and take their seats. His attention eventually falls on the pretty little brunette of the group. 

Funny, he used to like them blondes, yet recently he became more accustomed with brunettes. 

_Must be an age thing._

He chuckles to himself, remembering the last blonde he was with. _Poor Sydney. I wonder if she still lives around town and if she still wants to kill me._ She didn’t like it when he woke her up in the middle of the night with his hand around her neck and his erection brushing against her thigh. He couldn’t help it, he dreamt about Lacey and she was there with her blond curls and her long neck. The thought of her panicking makes him smirk to himself.

Yet shortly his smile subsides. The memories of his ex and a dead girl are being replaced by a revived one. While waiting for Knight he wonders if her file is available via the dark web. Most of Icarus’ shit recruits are. 

She read his file, probably knowing every little detail the CIA collected on his life, starting with his favorite type of beer to the size of his cock. It seems only fair he’d learn more of that untrustworthy little girl. 

_Perhaps I can hire her to kill herself._

Beginning to type her name in the search engine, he realizes he doesn’t even know her last name, yet he imagines there aren’t many Icarus agents named Ingvild. 

And just like so, her file loads, much to the curiosity that gnaws at his bones. Her pale face sulks at him through the large passport photo, grey eyes piercing into his, as if staring right into the black pit where his soul is supposed to be. Though to his great disappointment her file states nothing but dry details like her age, height, skills, and years of recruitment, which he finds to be terribly young. 

Icarus was a small organization, formed way back during the early 90s in western Europe. Their assassins never failed, yet most people hated working with them. 

_Probably because their agents were people like Ingvild._

By quick calculation he learns that Ingvild Einarson was recruited when she was 14. She was either sold or joined freely, which leads him to believe her parents were far gone by then or perhaps were the ones who sold her into this life.

_Could have been worse. For a young pretty girl, could have been sold to a life of sexual servitude._

He stares at her photo, his glare focusing on the furious grey gaze. Cold and blazing at once, assaulting him through the pixels of the screen. It’s almost as if she is facing him now. In his mind a vivid memory of those irises tearing little cuts into his flesh.

The only form of contact is possibly through the man she referred to as Liam. He imagines he is the one who sired her and eventually became her handler. He wonders how strong their relationship is as she called his name while she was unconscious. He searches for Liam next, finding a glorified assassin. 

Perhaps one of Icarus’ founding fathers.

“Lark?” A hoarse voice calls to him in a cockney accent. It makes him shut the laptop in an instant and direct his gaze to the man who leans against the window, staring at the cafe and avoiding eye contact.

August narrows his eyes at the small man who pretends as if they are not meeting. Even while standing slightly far, August can smell the aging cheese and corn snacks off his body. 

“I expected you to be a 15 years old boy,” August mocks, observing the receding hairline and the thick-rimmed glasses Knight wears. He seems around his 50s, wearing a t-shirt a size too small on his bulging belly and no apparent wedding ring. He is a rather short man, yet not as short as Ethan Hunt. 

_That fucking midget._

“Cut the act, if anyone sees me here I am a dead man anyway. This location is shit.” August complains, quickly observing the hall to make sure for the hundredth time no one is tailing him. 

He had enough “surprises” in Bergen. 

Knight turns to face him and August immediately regrets as the ghastly smell of cheese pipes up his nose. The square-looking man doesn’t smile, only stares at August with his beady eyes while adjusting the frame of his glasses between his sweaty digits.

“I have two sellers for you, both in England. One is here in London, the other in Manchester.”

Though Knight smells like someone who is living in his mother’s basement, he is quite straightforward. A quality that August appreciates. No questions, no introductions, just business.

“What are the bids?” August asks. “Do I meet them, or are all arrangements through you?”

“London strictly wants to meet you face to face, says he will send details if you’ll choose to accept the offer. Manchester I can arrange.” Knight answers, adjusting his glasses again as they continue to slide down his nose. 

August clenches his jaw and chews on the inside of his cheek anxiously. This entire ordeal has a bad scent to it, worse than Knight’s body odor. A coiled knot in his stomach warns him not to take either offering, yet his arrogance and the chance that it might not be a trap planted by the CIA, forces him to take his chance. 

What other choice is there? His resources are limited these days.

“They want 14 million GBP.” 

“I have the money.” August answers, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin and looking down for a moment to consider his decision.

“Tell London I can meet him today.”

Knight nods and takes his phone out of his pocket. August watches as he types a message with his sausage fingers before returning his gaze to the group of girls. While waiting for a response, Knight doesn’t attempt to start a small talk, to which August feels thankful. He’d rather smile at the ladies who are examining him and giggle amongst themselves too obviously. 

He returns the smile, giving them a small wave before taking a final gulp from his espresso. 

“London can meet tomorrow, he sent the coordinates and the time. I’m passing them through to you.” The stubby man speaks as he transfers a message to August through his mobile phone. August’s phone vibrates in his jacket pocket as the coordinates are received. He peers at the device, making sure he has the full information and shoves it back into his pocket. He nods at the fellow apostle with gratitude. 

“I will keep you posted.” August mutters before getting up from his chair. “If things go well tomorrow, I will contact the rest on our server. We have a new detonator being assembled, it will be quicker this time. We won’t fail.”

Knight nods in return and then lifts his greasy fingers, gesturing the devil horns at August. “Hail Satan!” he jokes, although there is no hint of humor or a smile on his face.

August returns Knight a serious unphased glare, the shaking of his head coming out more intimidating than he intended. As stoic as Knight appears to be, he still seems slightly frightened. 

“Don’t. do. that.”

With his final words, the tall man stretches himself up from the rounded bar stool. He throws a wrinkled five-pound note on the silver surface and makes his way toward the ladies who hush one another while watching him approach. His gaze burns at the innocent-looking brunette.

It’s not that he has the luxury of spare time. The chain of events is already set to motion, stretching tight like a celluloid film playing on a large screen. A new device is being built by another turned nuclear physicist abiding his will. Hunt must have thought Nils Delbruuk was the only professor turned apostle, but there were more than a few who believed his cause. Men of science and logic. He’d like to think of himself as one, a genius of some sort, even though his knowledge of building nuclear devices is still sparse.

But until the plutonium will be in his grasp, he can allow himself the delights of violent pleasures. 

Towering over the blushing lady, he lowers his shades on the bridge of his nose and smirks flirtatiously. She smiles back, hazel eyes and freckles on porcelain skin. She almost looks pure, almost like her.

If there is anything August loves, it’s destroying beautiful things. 

_Not perfect, but close enough._

~*~

The Airbnb apartment she rented in south Kensington has a nice view to other people’s houses. For two nights Ingvild laid on the small cot and gazed through the wide glass, looking at other people living their boring, normal lives.

She often wonders what it must be like: having a mundane routine, working, eating, fucking the same person, having children, growing old and withering. 

_Another form of servitude_ , she thinks to herself as she carries her sniper rifle and climbs up the iron stairs to the rooftop.

According to Sydney’s address August should be in the building right in front, which is why she deliberately rented her room based on proximity. Having confirmed her target is in London, she wonders how many times they’ve nearly bumped into each other like in romantic comedies, missing one another by mere seconds every single time.

No, she would have sensed him, her nose would pick up his musk, her chest would tingle at the sensation of his menacing presence. There was an odd bond between them, like two celestial beings, circling one another in constant gravity. He was the man who killed her, marked her by the kiss of death. The crescent in her abdomen begins to itch and throb. A memory of him penetrating her flesh beats her blood to run hotter.

Placing her sniper rifle on its stand, she crouches on the gravel and begins looking around the scope, running window through window. Likely he has a safe house in one of these apartments. Probably a place he bought, under a false name, something so obvious the CIA would ignore. 

She is patient, she can wait hours over hours, imagining the way his brain will splatter on the wall or on the floor as her bullet will pierce through.

_Will I be a hero? For saving the world?_

Not much to save anyway, she muses as she continues to seek window by window. The words of his manifest sit on her heart and hang on her mind, repeating like an echo. Dark whims and dark words, written in blood and passion. 

Ideals that could only be uttered by a man who bears a terrible secret.

_Who wronged you to hate the world so much, August?_

A blunt memory of their last chat in Bergen comes to mind. Bound again to the bed, as he cupped her chin between his long fingers and spoke of Erica Slone with eyes drenched with rage. 

“Did Erica mention what **she** did?”

_Do I even care?_

Gentle raindrops begin to hit the gravel softly, tapping on the tip of her head, she inhales the fresh scent. Humming to herself and brushes the thought away, reminding herself that her task is to eliminate him, the sooner the better. Though the rifle is unarmed, she means to wait for tomorrow, since having a go with him with the sniper rifle is risky; if she’ll miss the shot, he’ll likely escape again.

To have him know she is the one to kill him, to look into his eyes one moment before taking that shot, makes her wet. 

Yet the desire to see him, to stalk into his skin on his last night before his demise was too tempting to refuse. 

She licks her lips wickedly and chuckles dryly to the chill air, enjoying the slight wetness the rain brings. There in one of the room, a soft light blinks open. Ingvild’s pupil widens and a small gasp leaves her lips. In the dimly-lit room August Walker stands like an anarchistic angel. His muscular naked body glows in the amber light, standing tall, his solid form admirable. She tilts the scope slightly, taking interest in his large erect cock as he grips it in his palm, giving in a few long strokes.

He is not alone. A woman accompanies him: petite, with long brown hair. She runs her hands around his chest, nails stroking at the hair on his pecs with appreciation yet he turns her around and bends her over with dominance. 

Grabbing a condom, he rips the package between his teeth and rolls the rubber down his length before slapping her ass. Ingvild bites her lips, watching how he adjusts the condom and enters the girl from behind and begins moving inside her, rocking her forward, brow furrowing, his eyes half shut. 

Bile rises in her throat as her eye focuses through the scope. Watching in stern silence, but for the rain that grows slightly stronger and the beating drum in her ears. August fucks hard, pounding into the brunette in a rigid rhythm, back and forth, one hand on her nape while the other holds her waist.

His lips agape, Ingvild’s mind completes the sounds by the memory of his grunts from their shared adventure in the shower. Those deep melodic groans play as she watches his lips move. He likes to be vocal, so she learned.

Swallowing the dryness in her mouth, she continues to watch. His abs clench with every thrust, his hairy pecs flexing upward and his sweat covered brow-rises as he gasps. He shuts his eyes and throws his head back, his face the sight of ecstasy and violence. 

Feeling a sudden angry throb at her core, she pushes the scope away as if it was some hideous thing. Her breaths turn into pants, her thighs clench as she reaches to grab her pulsating mound.

Without thinking too much into it, she takes her phone and dials Liam.

“I’m cutting close, it will happen tomorrow.”

She never waits for him to answer, only hangs up while leaning against the wall of the rooftop and adjusting her breath and letting the intensifying raindrop roll down her breathless face.


	8. But who will sing for you once you die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible or August Walker

**Title: But who will sing for you once you die?**

Following the coordinates given to him by Knight, August steps through the muddy ground in the darkening evening sky. He listens to the squelching sound as his shoes sink into the moist mud, making sure the steps are his and his alone. His hand pushes a curled-up cooper fence that blocks the way, and ignores the warning sign as he continues forward, following a man-made path of wooden planks.

A monstrous abandoned building towers in front of him, looking like something out of an Italian horror film. Scaffoldings and metal bars surround the dark concrete brick of what appears to be a spire or a gothic opera house of some sort, construction not nearly halfway finished. 

August narrows his eyes with deep suspicion, making careful hesitant steps while looking around him. His hand reaches for the gun holster beneath the long beige jacket, ticking the clasp off in preparation of whatever awaits him tonight. 

The entrance is guarded by two large gargoyles, leering at him from above a large archway. He stares back at the sculptures, focusing on their empty eyes before stepping through the open gate.

A great hallway welcomes him, accompanied by large pillars that guide the way inside. They’re engraved by winged creatures-angels or demons, he cannot tell. The corridor is showered by red construction lights chained to the floor, laid next to each tall column. 

Bright enough to determine shadow from light, yet not strong enough to conclude if the deconstructed hall is a church, an opera house, or the gateway to hell itself. 

Only one thing is certain: it’s most probably a trap. 

August’s own steps echo in the acoustics of the tall ceiling. Marble shines on the floor through the wooden debris and large sheets of nylons huddled on the floor. His soiled shoes step between them carefully, trying to listen to whomever walks with him among the darkness. 

There in the umbra, a stalking predator moves behind the pillars. August pauses, his right hand resting on the grip of his gun while his ears capture the tapping sounds of small steps. An odd sensation spreads through each of his nerves, it almost feels like deja vu yet not as quiet. His heartbeat accelerates, her name rolling on the tip of his tongue even before the outline of her petite figure becomes clear. 

_How the fuck…?_

He might as well have summoned her into appearing by his endless thoughts of her. He can almost see her face as she moves with him with a succubus grin and shining eyes. She can tell he sees her, yet she does not bother hiding. 

This is a game.

Aggravated, August sighs and moves to seclude himself behind one of the pillars. His gestures are nearly graceful, displaying a lack of panic even though the blood in his veins begins to boil. This will be the second time she is messing up his plans.

The petite woman moves through the columns like a playful ghost; she is silent yet in his mind, he swears he can hear her demonic giggles. August begins to slowly mimic her behavior, stalking behind the opposing pillars like a large feline creature, watching her face and learning her movement methodically. 

There is a loud drum in her heart, her muscles slightly quivering beneath the skin from the thrill of finally seeing him. The chase was prolonged and even now where they’re finally sharing the same air there is an unforgiving distance between them.

_I will kill him with my own hands if I have to._

Perhaps that’s the intimacy he deserves.

“You really value your life so little, princess?” August’s deep voice finally graces her ears and the baritone makes her heart flutter. Not out of fear, but the rush of having him close after days of chasing him with sick intent. 

“On the contrary, Mr. Walker.” she replies with a smile on her soft-spoken voice, her eyes alternating between his figure and the path which is nearing its end. Arriving at the last wide column she pauses, half-hidden behind the angels and demons that embellish the pale stone. August does the same, staring directly into her eyes from the other side. 

No festive facade this time, just plain jeans and a black t-shirt. She grips her gun low to the side of her hip, her finger circling the trigger while her eyes stalk down his suited form trying to learn as many details as possible. This time there will be no surprises, no hidden knives, or sins of vanity and arrogance which made her fail in the past.

“I told you, I will keep coming for you.” 

“And I promised you, I won’t be merciful.”

A gun would be quicker, yet he would very much love to kill her using his bare hands. For a week the ghost of her face haunted him and now as her vision appears in the flesh all he fancies is to mount her small body and have his hands around her throat, squeezing hard until the breakinq sound of her hyoid bone will fill his ears.

_I wonder how many people know that it happens while choking someone to death._

“I finally read your manifest.” 

The many images of him pinning her to the floor fade by the softness of her voice. His gaze pierces through hers. A shimmering glint sparkles in her eyes which are now painted twilight red by the lighting of the room. 

“Do not mock me,” he warns while sliding his gun out from its holster. The sound of hard metal scratching against boiled leather makes her shiver with anticipation. 

“I’m not. It’s beautiful, I mean it.” she replies with sincerity. Her eyes focus on August’s long index finger as it ticks the safety off. _“The suffering I bring you is the bridge to ultimate peace.”_

August scoffs as she recites his own words to him, mesmerized by how her voice speaks his own written vows. 

“Are you trying to get me hard, princess? Because I’m halfway there.”

She offers him a slight chuckle, her mind tempting her with visions of his naked form yet she brushes them away, her smile quickly fading. “Too bad, you have to die.”

“Too bad.” he answers back, his eyes drinking her pleasing sight one last time before a final farewell. He takes a hasty mental photograph of the facility, planning his strategy carefully, memorizing every exit route and possible guarding point. 

“Well then, do we do this like in the American western films?” she taunts with a grin on her voice. “We count to four and draw? ”

He chuckles and shakes his head with amusement. 

“However you wish to die, babycakes.” 

“Alright then, on four.” she answers, and turns to lean against the pillar with her back while cocking her gun, now switching to hold it between her hands while they are folded up, the barrel pointing to the ceiling. 

“One…”

Stripping his jacket off quickly and throwing it on the ground, August prepares himself for the assault. With his back shoved against the thick column, he holds the gun close to his chest and glances at her from the corner of his eye. One eyebrow crooks up as determination paints his chiseled face.

“Two…”

The sounds of shots being fired shudder through the hall and ring painfully in their ears. Too loud to be able to hear the expensive stone blasting and falling apart at the floor. There is a high-pitched hum buzzing in Ingvild’s ear as she crouches down to defend herself. Her hearing becomes somewhat impaired from the loud blast, making it near impossible to hear his movement. 

He counts two shots from her weapon and sneaks on his knees to switch positions. Now hiding behind the doorless frame which leads to another room. The lighting of the facility makes it difficult to see movement, and the gunshots have temporarily damaged their ears. He wants to praise her for selecting such a perfect location for a showdown, but he knows she won’t hear a damn thing if he will. 

Breathing slowly, Ingvild sticks her head out carefully, just enough to seek his location. A whiff of violent wind grazes her cheek as a shot is fired too close to her face. She crawls back to her hiding position, glancing at the bullet that is pierced through the wall. Quickly, she sneaks out from her hiding place and sprints as fast as possible to stand at the same row of columns that August previously occupied.

He spots her movement and empties his gun four times, trying to hit her before she makes it to a barricade.

“Fuck!” he yells, missing her on all four shots. Her slender limbs and small figure make her far too agile for a long-range combat and he already spent 5 bullets. Chewing on the inside of his cheek he quietly slides down the wall and disappears into the back room. His eyes quickly run through the next corridor, finding nothing but construction equipment, scaffolding that holds the wall, and a half-exposed wooden floor that seems unstable as it creaks beneath his shoes. 

There is a disturbing silence coming from August’s frontier. Leaning her head back and closing her eyes she attempts to sense his presence, trying to remember Liam’s training. Yet her heart pounds too fast in her chest making her forget everything she ever knew. She had endless successful terminations since she was 14, yet fighting August is like fighting Lucifer himself.

For the first time in her life, she feels doubt. 

Grabbing a rock that fell from one of the pillars, she throws it into the room, hoping the movement will fool him and evoke him to shoot yet there is no reaction from him, which makes her conclude he escaped to another room. 

Taking a deep breath and trying to keep silent, she presses against the wall, smoothly advancing toward what seems like a crooked door frame. Her hands reach inside first, her head turning back for a swift second to make sure he is not lurking behind in her dead-zone. 

She makes her way into an unfinished hallway of some sort, her eyes seeking for August in desperation, trying to determine movement, her feet nearly floating in the air as she hopes to remain unseen. The stern silence is needling and pricking her skin. 

The hunter is caught by her own trap.

Cold sweat covers her forehead and a sharp intake of air is forced by her lungs as she feels his presence behind her. She attempts to turn and face him but something hard hits her on the back of her head. Her knees lose the battle to the physical trauma, her gun falling from her shocked fingers as pain blooms through her head like an electric shock. 

Feeling triumphant for a split second, August seizes her by the neck with incredible force, eliciting a distressed scream from her lips. 

“Shush now, beautiful angel.” he coos at her and points the gun beneath her jaw. “You already died before, you know what awaits you.”

_Nothing._

August watches as she stares at him, helpless. Her big eyes reflect his face in cherry hues. She is drenched with fear, even her sweat is soaked with it. Darn. Doesn’t it smell amazing combined with her natural body odor. 

It’s an aphrodisiac, making him semi-hard, drawing him to smell it.

Ingvild scowls with shock as he nuzzles her neck, his moustache scratching at her skin. A terrifying chill flutters through her spine, adding to the harrowing sensation of death’s welcoming invitation. 

She is not accepting it yet, though. 

Her hands grab onto his and struggle to hold the gun away from her face. She claws her nails onto his fingers, leaving bloody trails across his fists.

The gun fires five more times, emptied into the ceiling until it runs dry, shooting desolated clicks again and again until August grunts with wrath. Still holding her neck he shoves her toward the wall and slams himself against her back. The wooden floor creaks beneath them, its foundations starting to become unstable beneath their chaotic dance. 

“Why did you have to makethis **so fucking** complicated?!” he barks at her, his hand lacing itself with her hair, pulling her head back against his chest. She can hear the stark sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath and watches as her eyes reflect on the sharp silver. 

“Why do you have to be **such a fucking** cunt?!”

August rasps at her, attempting to anchor the knife against her throat. Bracing a leg against the wall she counters herself and pushes both of them back, also managing to knock the knife out of his hand and set herself free of his grasp. 

August’s shirt is stained with circles of sweat as she turns to face him; he is trying to catch his breath while glaring at her with blazing eyes. His infuriated gaze begins to travel lower, falling to the corner next to her and fixating on the floor. Bemused, she follows the direction in which his eyes are staring, finding her lost handgun resting on a pile of nylons. 

Their eyes meet together in a piercing glare, trying to read each other’s thoughts and calculate their next move. There is nothing between them but their loud breaths and the throbbing in their ears as their hearts pound heavily. 

Arrogant as ever, August is the first to make his move, lounging forward with ferocious speed. Infuriated, she moves to block him, her knee lifting high enough to kick his chest. Coughing violently he stumbles on his feet, his ankle thudding back through the rotten wooden flooring, causing the planks to fall through the basement level.

Ingvild stares horrified as the floor crumbles, as if hellmouth has opened in the ground. She attempts to step back, watching August fling his hands in the air as he loses his balance. His hand grasps the collar of her shirt, pulling both of them through the pit in the ground.

~*~

The air jolts from his lungs at once as his back hits the ground with incredible force and a twinge in his spine rips through his body, letting him know he is still alive. The sound of his own husky grunt is a plea in the darkness as his body remains stiff and immobilized. 

A sharp chill prickles his skin, moments of distilled fear are cold on his sweat. His mind begs to move yet his muscles ignore it.

Somewhere in the eclipse of the room he hears Ingvild’s suffering grunts. Small movements catch his attention from the corner of his eyes. Attempting to find her, he slightly sticks his head up, watching her crawl on the floor with immense effort. Her black jeans are torn at the knees, blood and dust cake her chafed flesh. She coughs, holding one hand over her chest while the other supports her weight on the basement floor.

Scratches and blood stain her once porcelain face, her hair is a mess while her eyes are glossy from both the struggle to breathe and the burning hatred that boils within her. Dragging her limbs she breathes so loudly every exhale comes out as a shrieking mutter. 

“You look so beautiful.” August mocks and chuckles in a rusty voice, his laughter melting into a pitiful cough. He manages to regain some of his motoric abilities, turning on one side yet his body betrays him, every muscle screams with exhaustion as he attempts to get up. 

While watching August trying to get back on his knees, the bile rises in her throat. A spike of adrenaline shoots through her heart, and like a screeching cat she lunges at him. Her hands push him back down on the dusty ground, securing his neck. She thrusts his head down and tightens her grip, strangling him while screaming with despair. 

She never hated anyone in her life as much as she hated him right now. 

August stares at her maddened face as she lies on top of him. Tiny wrinkles form between her brows as savage cries tear from her mouth. Her thumbs suppress his intake of air and force at his jugular. All the while, tears seam at her beautiful grey eyes, he can see his own reflection in the translucent glass. His lips are parted open, face turning purple. It almost feels like falling asleep. 

As his mind nearly drifts away he thinks of Lacey. 

_Was I the last thing on her mind?_

Aching as they are, his hands find their strength, reaching around Ingvild’s delicate throat. She hisses in disdain, trying to lift her upper body away from his reach yet he pulls her flat against him with all that remains in him.

Tiny spasms shock through her entire body as his lips crush against hers.

Her whimpers are divine, so gentle and delicate. He hums as if he is eating the most decadent desserts and devours every angelic sound her body produces. His hands are large and stark, restraining her head. Coarse fingers latch around her jaw, tethering her every movement while he dominates her mouth.

The scent of his own blood fills his nostrils as her claws paint his jawline threads of crimson, a pathetic attempt to resist him. Gory trails sear his skin yet he is distracted by sugary-sweet lips. Capturing her, he suckles hungrily, flirting between the south and north of her maw while his thick moustache leaves the skin above her upper lip red and irritated. 

The devil’s kiss leaves her in daze, the touch of his lips made her heart beat to an irrational speed, fuming in her ears and between her thighs. 

It’s as if her nightmare came to being in order to haunt her, or perhaps the pit they fell through is hell itself. 

Fruitlessly she tries to pull away. Yet his grip is iron, her small breasts mash against his chest as he holds her and entangles their legs together. Somewhere amidst her impossible attempt to escape a dangerous throb awakens between her thighs.

_No, I don’t want this._

August’s sharp teeth nip at her succulent flesh, his tongue stubbornly fights to exhaust her defiance. Yet it’s not his mouth that tricks her into submission but a rogue gasp that rudely forces her mouth open as she feels him bumping his hips and grinding his rock-hard erection against her torso.

August smirks in vanity and exploits her disarray. Penetrating the hot velvet cavern of her mouth and groaning at the sweet cinnamon of her tongue. He licks and swallows every tender whimper while molten bliss dances through his tendons. 

Fear of death is replaced by a whole new strain of terror, making her squirm as August conquers her mouth. Ingvild’s mind whispers dark words, keenly reminding her that August Walker will not settle for just a kiss. The thought of his Adonis-like naked body pressed against hers sets a wild shiver in her arms. Horrified, she releases his neck and begins hitting his chest, exploiting the last drops of strength that still stream in her muscles. Her fist ploughs at him, seeking for that weakness until finally, his punishing mouth tears away from hers with guttural growl. 

Ingvild inhales sharply. Rage is hot and loud on her breath as she glances down on the man who violated her mouth. His unforgiving hands slide from her nape to her shoulders, caging her forcefully while his tongue flicks to clean himself from her taste provokingly.

A malicious smirks sparks his face as he watches her grey eyes turn into crimson. The sight of her mouth engorged and glistening from his abuse is enough to make his cock twitch with sheer anticipation. He wonders how hot and wet she is for him down below, how wonderful she will sound taking the entire length of his cock.

“I bet your cunt tastes even better.”

The blood seethes in her. Any coherent thought is lost, there is nothing but hatred as she bestows him a sharp smack across the face, causing him to turn his head aside from the force of her slap.

Iron caresses his tongue as he tips it at the small gash that formed in his lower lip.

_Just like Lacey._

He growls at her dangerously, his eyes narrowing and his grip tightening. He readies himself to hit her back but is stopped by delicate lips that smear blood across each corner of their mouths. 

Like an animal licking her prey, she drinks him. 

For a moment she feels weightless, floating feather like, anchored by nothing but the gravity of his strong body beneath her. But the yearning to brutalize him grounds her back to reality. She bites and sucks, her fangs creasing small cuts at his chin and the apex of his lips before moving to torment his mouth which kisses back at her in a wet synergy. 

_I knew it’d be fun to break her._

August’s hands travel south her spine, capturing her taut ass and squeezing it tightly. The heartless succubus tries greatly to be aggressive yet he finds her kisses delicate as butterfly wings flapping on his flesh. The warm hums of her voice tickles his throat and her taste, a fear and lust mixed elixir. 

He could swear he has never been this hard in his entire life. 

Unrelenting desire flows through him, having had enough with letting her explore. He takes the reins and flips her down into submission. His tongue writhes into her mouth, snake-like and slippery while his hands ravage her body. He kneads and gropes, making sure to be as crude and ruthless. He hopes to hurt her every possible way. 

She wriggles beneath him, legs locked, entwined between his, her boots kicking the ground helplessly. Sharp talons tug at her shirt and her bra at once, huddling it up beneath her chin. Just enough to expose her perky breasts to feast upon. August breaks away from her lips, staring at her naked chest while his teeth chew at the gash in his bottom lip.

A rosy blush spreads down her naked torso, the cries that leave her mouth speak of just as much pain as they tell of pleasure. August’s fingers thread between her peaked nipples before reaching to kiss and nip at her breasts. Ingvild shakes beneath him, exclaiming small hisses as his teeth leave purple marks across her body. 

“Remember how I promised I’d fuck you, princess?” He asks darkly, a twisted fascination marking his face as his finger traces the stitches on the wound he gave her. 

“I wish you’d die.” she bites back with loathing to which he replies with a cold smirk.

“You can’t even get **that** right, little girl.”

Snarling like a possessed thing, she finds herself clawing at him. Berserk, mind twisted, sick with desperation, her hands seek through the shadows, nails ripping and yanking at fabric and skin, shredding at whatever she can find until his battered body is exposed to her.

August huffs at her, his nostrils flaring. The small vixen beneath him awakens his every primal instinct; he wants to gnaw at her bones, to reduce her to nothing as he fucks her through her tears. 

The violent scuffle to remove her jeans takes seconds. Sturdy fingers tug at both her undergarments and her trousers, pulling them down the bones of her hips in sheer brutality while she snakes her hips and kicks her feet. Exposed to the chill of the room and to August’s darkest needs. 

Alarm spikes in her chest, beating with anxiety as his hand runs smoothly up and down her creamy limbs. Her legs shut together instinctively yet the beast shoves his knees between her thighs, starved to enter the warmth of her body. He fumbles with his belt and the noise of the buckle clicking makes her jostle with fright. She attempts to catch that whimper before it leaves her mouth yet fails. August sneers, pulling out his large erect cock and letting the base grind against the wetness of her slit.

One hand cradles her skull, his thumb pressing against her lips, holding her head in place. The horror feeds him, stupendous panic, making her shiver beneath his large body. 

The frozen girl who never feared death is afraid of **him**.

Feasting on her sight, he reaches his fingers to his mouth, letting his slippery tongue flake the tips. His thick saliva coats them before he sends his hand down to lubricate her inviting slit.

Ingvild’s breath suspends as scenes of her nightmare come to life. August hovers above her like a great incubus and she muses if this is all but a dream, yet the brush of his wet fingers between her petals proves to be the only thing that feels real in her existence. There is a pulsating void in her chest and between her thighs, aching at his touch.

“Fuck.” he calls out ecstatic as the tip of his fingers finds her sleek and hot. Unable to wait anymore, he immediately grips at his cock and positions himself in her narrow slit. ”You’re soaked, you want this.”

Frozen in time, her breath takes away as the hard velvet of his manhood breaches her entrance, desecrating her with sin. His invasion into her body is brutal, ripping through her fresh core, while chanting moans of the most divine pleasure.

Every sensation becomes vivid inside her as he is buried in her depth, the astonishing, overwhelmingly tight grip around him, the nails that bite into his biceps, the small body that shudders unstoppably. 

It almost feels as if he just broke something inside her.

“Oh…”

Realization seeps into his mind as she remains still but for the twitch in her muscles. Frowning bemused, he tilts his head down, noticing the quiver in her lip and the wetness beneath her glassy eyes. Ingvild watches silently, white with shame as August reaches his fingers to the space where they’re connected and returns them stained in crimson.

“Huh,” he exclaims, playing with the blood between his fingers before landing his palm next to her head. Sick pride poisons his beautiful blue eyes, his tarred heart singing of great victories. He didn’t think it was possible to be even more aroused, having wanted her for so long, but the fact that he just stole something from her that she will never gain back drives the degenerate feral animal inside him wild.

“Did I just pop your cherry, princess?”

Ingvild answers with silence, ignoring the arrogance that beams on his face and the searing pain inside her. She feels the warmth of her blood and the righteousness of her walls trying to defend her lost honor while his manhood throbs inside her with excitement. 

Ever so slowly, he pulls out, his mouth ghosts over hers, aphrodisia coursing through his veins, fueled by the despaired gasp that leaves her mouth. 

“Aww…” he coos at her yips and cries with false sweetness, his hand snapping at her inner thigh, handling it against his hip to force another punishing thrust. Pain surges through her cervix as he hits too deep. His low groans are languished, guttural melodies of pleasure.

“You feel so good, princess.”

Unwilling to succumb to his cruelty, she growls in anger. As he pulls back for the third time she pushes hard to meet his thrust, taking his thick cock all the way into her chasm. Still raw, her muscles scream with protest yet she grits her teeth and smiles twistedly, unwilling to let him triumph over her. 

August closes his eyes with delight, an onslaught of curses spilling from his lips at the sensation of her succulent walls engulfing him with woven warmth. He couldn’t be gentle with her even if he wanted to. His entire existence calls to shred her, to see her lips parting to small pathetic sobs of pain and pleasure as he conquers her. 

Pain still spasms in her core as he drives into her in a lewd manner, yet the odd sensation of fullness achieved with the reach of his cock to the pit of her cervix evokes a new pleasant tingle in her essence. Like a gentle chord it vibrates, playing the sweetest music and blooming within. 

Every time he pulls away she suddenly grows desperate for his return. 

_More please, more._

Deep whimpers and laboured groans fill the empty spaces between the shadows, creating a violent harmony as August fucks into her in a wild, primal rhythm, ending every thrust with a slam which makes her arch against him and tear his skin with her nails. 

They can feel themselves pulsating in rage against one another, flesh slapping into flesh, blood and fluids, hot, savage like animals, reduced to nothing but their carnal lust. Their bodies move in unison, lips and tongues collide, teeth nipping at each other. 

“You like that?” August rasps, his voice cracking into groans as he continues to pump in and out mercilessly, feeling her walls growing tighter, milking his cock in demand to drain him from his generous offering. 

A hazed memory of a long time ago brushes through his mind. There’s a familiar sensation to this, surging through his ribcage, a desire to unload all his anger and hatred into someone else, to be baptized by her essence. It makes him fuck her harder, mistaking the thought that he could experience the slightest moments of redemption. 

_She doesn’t feel like that ungrateful bitch, nothing about her does._

Ingvild bites her lip tightly, withholding from crying his name. There is a wholeness in her she never felt before. Tears well in her eyes, loving and hating the way his body fits inside her, making every sensation she ever felt in her life become insignificant. All that matters is his lips, heart, and cock as it sinks into her in an unstoppable pace until the colors and tunes dance in her heart and a burst of white flames explode within her.

For the first time in her life she comes around something, feeling complete. 

_She looks beautiful when she comes._

“I’m going to come inside that virgin pussy of yours.” 

August gasps a threat as he rocks above her, astonished by the sight of ecstasy on her face. His balls clench against the seam of her cunt and his cocks swell between her clutching muscles. Spiraling out of control his fingers snap at her feeble throat, choking tightly as he’s thrown beyond rapture. Ignoring her desperate fight for air, his orgasm takes him by force. He moans deeply and spills his seed into her virginal womb.

Sobbing gasps leave her mouth as he strangles her. Tears roll from the corners of her eyes, falling down to her dusty hair in the dim light. Too meek to fight him off, she watches as his stare turns black, lost in some trance.

_What are you doing to the girl, August?_

As if waking up from a dream, he snaps back and gazes down on her, surprised by the vulnerability and fright in her grey eyes as his hand holds her down. 

_End this._

He frowns at himself, nearly frustrated, his hands releasing her slowly, backing away in the air, allowing her to breathe once again. 

_You fucking idiot._

August watches her heave, sobbing beneath him silently. Her skin trembles beneath his heavy body. Shock and grief storm in her eyes at her lost innocence. As his knuckle grazes her cheek, she suddenly flinches and looks at him oddly. 

The blue ocean in his glance shows no emotion, yet he croons at her and comforts her with the soft hush of his lips. His coarse thumb dries her tears, wiping them away and stroking her hair to cease her from shaking. 

“Shhh… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

His touch is tender, almost relaxing. But the more she stares at him, the more chaos charges in her chest, making her want to scratch her own eyes in anguish. Pushing him away, she forces him off, guilt ridden and ashamed. She tugs her shirt back down and fumble for her pants desperately. A pink mixture trickles down her inner thigh as she pulls her jeans up.

Her blood, his semen.

His cock is coated by her innocence as well, tainted by a thin layer of blood. He chuckles to himself coldly while sitting up and holding himself from making a humiliating joke about it while she moves around between shadow and twilight. 

Unaware of what to say or do, he pulls his trousers back up and stands on his feet, trying to find his remaining piece of clothing before deciding what to do with her.

The sharp sound of a gun’s barrel being stretched pauses his musings before they even begin to take shape. His glare lifts up slowly to meet hers. There she stands, the untrustworthy whore, her gun gripped between her hands. A distressed look on her tortured bleeding face. 

_Just like the rest of them._

Her lips tremble as she speaks, her brow rising up as if out of mercy. 

“I have to kill you.” 

A burst of light flashes in the room, making her grey eyes shine so bright they glisten like stars in the darkest skies.

It’s the last thing he sees before his world goes black. 


	9. Lacey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Mission Impossible franchise or August Walker

~*~

_Have you paid the ferryman?_

~*~

The cool light of fluorescent doesn’t do the honeyed gold of her hair justice. 

Doe eyes meet him, a striking green. Pure, like freshly-cut grass on a spring morning. The navy-coloured suit she wears counters the sunny shade of her slightly curly hair. She sports mid-length tassels, cut neatly just above her shoulders. She looks like she had it done this morning by the looks of it . 

“Hartmann, Lacey.”

Sitting at his desk with a pen pressed to his lips, the CIA agent observes her while ignoring the small hand in front of him. A tall, fit man in his late 20’s, face clean-shaven, hair like pure chocolate, combed neatly to the side but for a large rogue curl that falls on his brow. He collects it between his fingers and attempts to tuck it back in place.

“I don’t do partners, sweetcheeks.” he retorts after a short glance and turns away from the young agent, returning to his computer to browse a file he was just reading before she interrupted him.

An amused sigh passes through her plump lips as she shakes her head with sheer disbelief. “Do you have it any **more** cliche than that?” 

“I might, depending how long you are going to loom over there, princess.” August shoots back and slightly adjusts the tie around his shirt collar, not bothering to face the young woman again. It’s obvious what this is: a muzzler, or rather a babysitter in the form of a really good-looking girl. 

He fights the temptation to take another gander at the way her hair frames the apples of her rosy cheeks. 

“But since you’re already here, how about you fulfil your purpose in life and get me a cup of coffee? Double espresso, no sugar.”

August shoots her a look, observing her immediate reaction. Lacey’s green eyes widen, her mouth slightly opens. She rubs her knuckle between the soft pads of her fingers while thinking of what could be a suitable response to his disrespectful request.

_I guess Erica didn’t bother prepping her._

Sloane, the heartless lioness. She leered at him with that sour look on her face since the day he stepped into the building. He swears the woman must have slices of lemons hidden in her panties. There is not even a drop of respect in those dark eyes whenever he sits in her office. Nor does she harbour any trust in his performance on the field. 

_It all just worsened thanks to Ukraine._

The explosion in the old Soviet power plant killed dozens of innocent lives at the cost of one. Though that man was responsible for the death of thousands, if not more. 

_If you want to tear down a building, you better use a **fucking** hammer._

That cunt should thank him and promote him. 

“Nothing but daddy’s boy.” That’s what she sees in him. He might as well be another dead CIA agent like his father, then. Erased from memory, his great achievements discredited. At least **he** doesn’t have a family to throw to the dogs so they can rip them to shreds.

_Oh Sloane, if only you knew half of the shit that goes beneath that stuck-up nose of yours._

Releasing another deep sigh, Lacey slumps to the seat in front of him, crossing her long legs together and leaning back in her chair while grabbing the folder on her desk. Her lips clamp together tightly, trying to hide the saltiness on her face. Long lashes curtain her eyes which pretend to read through the file. August rolls his eyes with annoyance, trying to ignore her existence and continue working his way through a case he’s been reading before she interrupted him. 

Yet every now and then his storm-touched eyes peer at the naive-looking woman, observing her and trying to determine how long will she last.

~*~

_Is this hell?_

~*~

That dusting of freckles on her nose and the fresh shimmer in her eyes give out much softness, yet she is anything but weak. Lacey Hartmann is a shield-maiden of some sort. For 2 months she withstood August’s “boot camp,” meaning she appeared unaffected by his cold demeanour.

At times there is even a hint of a smile hiding beneath that peach shade lipstick when August challenges her with an obscene dark joke. A hint of amusement tints the green of her irises, but she never dares to admit it. 

Too coy, almost chaste, yet iron-willed. 

August finds her behaviour borderline masochistic as he continues to prize her with nothing but arctic affection. Even so, she always listens when he speaks, her eyes open with pure intent, a fertile green field in her glance. 

Something spikes at the marrow of his bones, intrigue or so. Trivial thoughts find themselves latching into the tunnels of his complicated mind. His CIA brain begins to note her morning routine. A glacial stare registers the vanilla latte she drinks almost religiously every morning at 9, with two teaspoons of sugar. Lacey has a sweet tooth, it seems. She never misses dessert at the cantine and he once caught her bending the rules and sneaking candies back from their previous mission at eastern Europe.

He also noticed how when she is nervous, she twirls a finger in her hair with agitation and chews her plump lips. 

Blue is another point of interest. The colour seems to be dominant in her attire and accessories for some cryptic reason, though. not obsessively. She wears black or grey but then ties a silk scarf the shade of the sky around her delicate throat. When she is having a bad hair day, it’s the red pencil suit that draws attention to her body instead. The combination is horrifying when she sits in front of him holding her favourite mug which is glittery cerulean. 

He begins to wonder about her life outside of the headquarters. Her file rested in his apartment for weeks yet only recently he found himself bored enough to peek inside and read about her personal life. No husband is listed under her marital state, yet he wonders if a woman as attractive as Lacey has a man waiting for her at home. Someone kind, he imagines, and pitiful. She looks like a woman lacking a strong man in her life. 

“Are you going to finish that?” 

August’s brows furrow as she cuts into his adventurous trails of thought. His glassy eyes pierce at her as she sits in front of him at the cantine, sharing a lunch table. He hardly speaks during lunch anyway, and only listens to her musings with the usual sulk on his face. 

Lacey appears slightly frightened when she sees his menacing expression, yet her fright melts into a soft blush and a coy grin, in an attempt to pacify him. He nudges the plate with a slice of chocolate cake in her direction. 

“No, go ahead.” he watches as she digs her fork into it with excitement, her eyes shutting with near orgasmic pleasure as the chocolate melts on her tongue. 

His mind continues to wander, offering him possible imaginary visions of her personal life while she mumbles something in the background about the cake being outrageous. 

_Her home address would be in that file too._

It’s nothing but idle curiosity, after all.

~*~

_You don’t believe in hell._

~*~

It’s been over 6 months of enduring her by his side. August imagined she’d run off crying to Sloane 2 days after being forced into this partnership, but she keeps a vow of secrecy, even when he bends a guideline or two during missions or violates nearly every HR policy. At first, she would warn him about his behaviour, but now she just calls it “The Walker Way”. 

It almost feels like he has a partner in crime. 

They arrived in Sicily a night ago, their mission is to locate and capture a millionaire-turned-terrorist and bring him in for questioning. It’s a high profile target, which means the CIA spared no expense providing them with the finest hotel suites and fancy attire to attend a gallery opening. An informant suggested the suspect might be doing his bidding at the same mansion. 

Lacey meets August at the hotel’s main parking lot, wearing a cornflower blue mermaid-cut gown. Threads of silver adorn the outlines of her cleavage and little pieces of sparkling glitter draw his attention to her bust. He doesn’t attempt to hide the way his eyes fixate on her breasts. Beaming at the pale pink fat of her bosom before his gaze finally wanders to meet her face, giving her his regular cocky stance.

_Is she wearing a bra underneath?_

“You look handsome,” Lacey compliments, swallowing a complaint about the obvious way he objectified her. “We look as if we’ve matched colours.” The royal blue three-piece suit brings out the ocean in his eyes and she allows herself to dwell in the calm water as she glances back, offering him a smile.

Stoic, he ignores her praises, studying her face quietly. The shade on her lips is not the usual one; it’s darker, making her look more vamping. He doesn’t like it, her natural appearance is sweet and supple, and this colour clashes with her complexion and the concept of her in his mind.

The unnerving silence between them greatly challenges her. The need to crack the autumn evening air with some sort of dialogue pans in her chest. 

“Are you…” Lacey begins speaking when her eyes squint at the region of his mouth. “…growing a moustache?” Bold fingers reach up, ghosting over his upper lip where a few days’ stubble seems to grow longer than the rest on his jaw. August cocks his eyebrow as the tips of her fingers almost touch his mouth. She notices his disapproval and pulls her hand away apologetically.

“For the mission, I thought it might make me look older.” 

An amused smile cracks on her face, her cheeks rounding up to perfect blushing circles. “The real Mrs. Walker would be mortified.” 

August scoffs, rolling his eyes at the notion before turning away to watch the cars that pass by. His hand rests on his chest, straightening the vest underneath his suit and stretches the muscles of his back. A timid-blowing zephyr caresses his face; his Adam apple rises and drops dryly in his throat.

“Is there a…”

“Oh c’mon, Hartmann! You know the answer to the question, don’t act stupid and play small talk with me, it’s not your style.” 

Lacey’s lips press shut together, her green eyes dropping to the floor. She knows the only Mrs. Walker is his mother, and Madeleine has been gone for a couple of years now. Everything is in his file, allowing her to learn about the “mundane life” August Walker leads, or at least the ones he allows her to see through her CIA spectacles. 

It was an obligation to do the same with her. His old man once told him to learn who he’s dealing with before opening his “goddamn mouth.” That’s all there is to it, and his curiosity if he **has** to admit it.

Lacey Hartmann lives alone with her cat, Sir Podrick, on Hampshire St 457 on flat number 45. A magazine two-room apartment, picture-perfect, tidy to the point of OCD. She has an older sister but they rarely see each other. On her free weekends, she loves to watch romantic comedies while drinking hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. 

He often wonders if her sweet tooth is compensating for something missing in her life. Yet there is never a man in her apartment.

Sometimes she dances in front of the window, especially after a hard day at the office. He can’t tell which music is playing in her headphones, but the way she moves her body makes him believe it’s something upbeat and cheerful. 

The images of her bedroom window vanish as a slightly irritating thought peaks in his mind at her comment. Mrs. Walker. A hiss of violent air shoots from his nostrils. 

Relationships were not something he cared to pursue. Life had other offerings. 

Besides, the women he liked were too tender and he was too rough. So, his conquests never lasted more than a night. 

Agitated, he pulls his sleeve to look at his Rolex, muttering something obscene under his breath which makes Lacey shift uncomfortably on her feet. The driver should have arrived by now. Every car that parks at the pebbled road bears disappointment, dropping off more honeymooners and rich, older married couples. 

A soft smile breaks on Lacey’s painted lips while she stares at August who’s facing the driveway with his fists clenched at the sides of his body.

“Well, since we’re stuck here waiting for a ride, you better entertain me.” Lacey speaks with grace, not a hint of nervousness or fright in her voice. She learnt how to deal with August and his tantrums by now. 

August remains silent, his sight never breaking from the driveway and the alley of palm trees that pave the path. 

“Or I guess we can stare at the big full moon,” she says to herself, lifting her eyes to the clear sky.

August stares back at the golden-haired woman, her long lashes fluttering gently as she counts the stars in her mind. A naive glint sparks her eyes as she’s captivated by her own fascination. The pale blue of the moon reflects on her milky skin, making her look like a siren in her beautiful dress.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” he says in his deep voice. 

*~*

_And even if it existed, hell wouldn’t have you._

*~*

The expo is held at a royal mansion of some sort. A large Sicilian palace that is owned by an ageing millionaire. Golden floral embellishments spread across the azure velvet walls, shimmering at the lights of the crystal chandeliers which dangle in the halls. 

Various ancient trinkets are placed in glass cubes. Crudely-made bows and arrows that were carved from cheap wood by a half-brain neanderthal are offered for the price of 200,000,000 Euros. 

_Ridiculous_.

Keen on finding their target, both August and Lacey decide to split up upon their arrival, planning their strategy ahead by protocol. August is the striking image of professionalism tonight, stretching his gaze around the large hallway. He has been this way for the last several missions, working by the book, making sure to perform as clean as possible, whatever that means in CIA terms. 

He even managed to win a word of praise from Sloane, who still can’t stand the very sight of his face. But at least she ceased from eating his head at the conclusion of every mission. 

And Lacey seems to appreciate it, too. 

The brooding man spends the night pretending to be enthralled by the exhibition and its boring guests who continually attempt to strike pointless conversations with him. As part of his task, he only speaks with those who seem to be an asset and brushes others away by answering in fluent Italian, pretending to not understand a word in English while smiling at them politely. 

Blending in, the young agent stands by one of the bars, leaning onto the marble counter and enjoying some type of strawberries-in-cream dessert which was offered to him by a tall, abnormally attractive waitress who’s been walking around with a silver tray. 

_Lacey would love this fruit-pudding thingy,_ he muses as his fingers brush through the mid-length stubble above his lip. His eyes carefully scan the room for any group of men in their late 30s for a clue or a sign. 

The sound of a woman’s laughter chips away his attention like a siren’s call.

_So that’s how she sounds like when she laughs._

Grabbing a glass of champagne, he steps forward on the black carpeted floor, following the cheerful voice as it rolls delightfully in his ears. Storm clouds gather in his eyes. The siren is behaving unprofessionally to the point of being offensive. A tall glass of half-empty Lambrusco hangs between her slender fingers while her head falls back; her hand rests on her chest, trying to contain her laughter. 

She is the centre of attention to a group of famished men. 

August frowns with disapproval. She’s supposed to act drunk, not get buzzed. Standing at the large pathway, he watches how she smiles widely, mouth gaping, small dimples peeking at the corner of her lips. The honey of her hair makes her stand out in a room of dark beauties, the shade of her dress an anchor for any travelling eyes.

He takes an irritated sip from his champagne, swallowing the sparkly liquid, trying to ignore the bells of laughter which begin to sound like an insult, meant to provoke him. His piercing eyes search for the target in the room, focusing on the task on hand and being the professional his father urged him to be. 

Yet as if magnetized, his glare returns to her. 

For a moment there he nearly forgets that she is a CIA agent. The men around her flirt nearly barbarically, their mouths salivating with predatory hunger. Is she too pure to understand their intentions? The vultures are waiting to tear her limb by limb. Possibly hoping she will be drunk enough to be dragged by one of them.

The storm inside him rages. Thoughts of her being tainted by one of these hideous men enter his mind and poison bubbles in his throat, drowning him in anger.

He puts his champagne flute on the tray of one of the hostesses who passes by. He fixes his tie over his neck and swallows hard. His strides are confident and charismatic as he marches into their circle abruptly, reaching an arm over to Lacey. 

“Sweetheart, here you are. Come see this piece, you’re going to love it.” hee speaks with contained anger, his baritone loud and clear, roaring through his puffed chest and squared shoulders.

Lacey turns to smile at him as he latches his fingers around her forearm, rescuing her by pulling her away from the predators with as much elegance he can muster at his current aggravated mood.

“Are you fucking drunk, Hartmann? What’s wrong with you?! We have a dangerous man to catch.” He whispers angry and low in her ear, carrying her toward an open terrace where they can discuss and re-strategize the mission.

The cool breeze caresses their faces, tenderly running through their hair as they approach the open air. The young woman continues to giggle as August’s fingers tickle beneath her armpit while he takes her to stand next to the large renaissance modules that hide them from the guests of the event. He lets go of her forearm, looking down at her with a scowl.

“Relax, I was trying to make it look convincing with these decadent, empty idiots.” she attempts to pacify him, looking up into his eyes, her head reaching just beneath his square chin. 

“Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“What is?”

“The way they sell these artefacts on such a high price when it was created by a primitive creature who ate his own fleas,” she mocks with a mischievous smile. “This is the end of human culture, this capitalistic point of view.”

A cold shiver crawls at August’s spine as he hears her speaking of his ideals. He had never seen her this way before. 

So opinionated, so bold. 

_Has she been reading my mind?_

They have never been this physically close, he can smell the lupines on her skin and the Lambrusco on her breath. Lacey’s amused grin begins to relax somewhat, her eyes now staring at something with stark fascination.

“You have a brown spot in one of your eyes.”

August brow furrows even deeper, dark lines forming between his thick eyebrows as the woman ogles him in a bizarre way. His blood thickens as the pleasant wind brushes at his face.

“Sectoral heterochromia, I was born with it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she answers with an enchanted glare, batting her lashes and moving further to study the shape of his flaw. Her feet arch to the tip of her toes, reaching higher to his face. August remains still, watching as if within a haze when her lips crash onto his. 

Chills spiral through his nerves, his eyes wide open as her soft lips press into his in a long, chaste kiss. There is a small hum in her voice, painted lashes look like black curved trails as her eyes shut with an enchantment. For a second he can feel her body press into his, her breasts grinding at his broad chest. She slowly detaches from him, opening her eyes and falling flat on her feet.

Alarm spills onto her face, her hand covering her mouth with guilt as panic surges. August stares back without a sign of emotion on his arctic face.

“I’m so sorry!” She calls out in utter embarrassment, moving away from him by a step.

His breath grows rigid, his mind a war. In an instant, he pulls her wrist away from her face and claims her into his grasp, kissing her earnestly, even violently. Lacey’s moans melt into his mouth, her body crashing into his, writhing as her lips gape, accepting his insidious tongue. 

She tastes like sugar.

August slams her against the wall, growling as her hands roam down his body and messing his outfit. A fervent stir tingles at his groin and the way she squeezes the muscles of his behind and tries to shove her hands under his trousers does nothing to relax his racing heart. Depraved, his hand pushes between her legs, trying to cup her heat through the tight dress, yet it cages her legs too tightly. 

“I want you out of this fucking dress.” August growls, breaking the passionate kiss to breath hot and heavy in her ear. 

“Then take me back to the hotel.” she retorts breathlessly, grinding her pelvis into the growing hardness in his groin.

“We can’t, the mission.”

Lacey emits a frustrated huff, sounding as if she’s meaning to beg as her body constantly pushes into his in a snakelike dance. “Forget about him, he’s not here, we’ll do it the Walker way.”

There is nothing in this world strong enough to convince him otherwise as those big doe eyes peer at him with admiration and a sense of need he never received from any woman before. It wasn’t like the women who begged him to fuck them as he tormented and delayed their release.

For the first time in his life, he felt purely wanted.

~*~

The ride back to the hotel is the most dreadful experience he had to endure in his life. Both Lacey and he sit at each side of the car, avoiding eye contact whilst their organs throb with aching need. She keeps her fingers laced together while the driver listens to some old Italian love song and sings along the tunes on the radio. August attempts to avoid drowning into his thoughts but the idea of having her tonight makes the blood pool hot in his loins.

They hardly make it into her room. Exploiting every moment left in solitude to make out like horny teenagers. Whenever a hotel staff member or a guest passes by, they break away from one another in the most obvious manner.

As they finally arrive at the suite, August kicks the door shut with his foot and preys at her, his talons reaching for her face, his thumb wiping off whatever remains of her lipstick before kissing her again. 

“I don’t like this, it isn’t you.” he states in between invigorated kisses while Lacey battles to take off his clothes, pushing the blazer off his shoulders and then working the buttons of his vest and shirt with lust guiding her fingers. She ignores his remark, answering with another breathless kiss instead while moving to fumble with his belt.

Their feet kick at one another as August leads them toward the king-size bed, fondling the curves of her body through the terrible prison that is her dress. His long legs nearly lose their balance as she successfully unzips his trousers and finds him fully erect and pulsating in her small hand. 

Logic turns to steam at the manipulation of her hands. His gasps resonate through the length of his throat, giving in to the whispers of his heart. How long yearned for her, wanting to keep her in the birdcage of his vision. 

Lacey, so bold yet so sweet. 

With the swiftness of his hands, he turns her around, tugging at the zipper of her dress while dotting her collarbone with possessive nibbles. Her naked figure unveils to him as a flower opens to the sunlight of spring.

Left in nothing but her baby-blue lace underwear, she steps out of her dress and moves to face the large naked man, pacing back as he sneaks toward her like a direwolf. The look on her face is admirable. Drenched of fear and desire at once, feeding his natural dominance.

“August…” she whispers his name. Her lips quiver at the sight of his broad form, appreciating every sinew, every muscle. August reaches to hold his cock as the blood stirs into it with rage, wanting to be inside this angel, to taint her and mark every piece of skin. 

“I don’t have a condom.” he warns, licking his lips as she slides her underwear down her long, creamy legs. Her mound is completely waxed, just the way he wants it. Pure. 

“I’m clean and protected.”

Inviting him into her mysteries, Lacey offers him a devoted stare and reaches her delicate hand toward him. No clarity is left in his mind; desire clouds every rational thought, every self-preservation instinct. He ignores her hand and lunges at her like a predator.

They fall into a sea of silken sheets together, August covering her body with his, giving no care of how his weight crushes her. His hands hold her wrists pinned to the mattress as he pushes her smooth thighs apart with his knees.

Lacey’s moans are mesmerizing as he sinks himself into her wonders. Singing her pleasure at him like a true siren. An overwhelmed groan breaks from his own lips as the wetness of her flesh encloses around his cock, sucking him from within with an embrace of lust. Soft and delicate, she writhes against his crude, rugged body and he thrusts inside her with teetering grunts, taking her with sheer, primal dominance. 

She feels different, like no other woman he ever had before. Completely submissive to his darkest desires. Her body opens to him, like a precious, heavenly nymph and he takes what he wants. Deeper and deeper, drowning into her womb, never wanting to stop, invigorated by the way her hands clutch at his body with the same desperation that is in his chest.

For three days, they never leave the suite. Lost in a carnal euphoria that makes both of them forget the existence of the outer world.

~*~

_Oh, hell indeed exists, it’s on the earth you walked your entire life._

~*~

The delicious aroma of crispy, caramelized bacon and fluffy pancakes tickles his senses to wake up. Salty and sweet, the scent draws him to sit upon the bed that’s slightly too small for his wide frame. A drowsy smirk crawls onto his face. This scent is his second favourite thing to wake up to. 

Locating his cobalt trunks on the floor, he hauls himself out of her bed, pulls them on and tries to tame the messy bundle of curls on his head while he walks to find her in the kitchen. The bacon sizzles on the pan as Lacey stands next to the stove in his buttoned-up shirt. She is flipping an impossible quantity of pancakes and frying strips of bacon in another pan. 

Her rounded ass peeks at him with every shift her body makes.

August sneaks behind her with the skill of a CIA agent, looming closer and wrapping his arms around her torso, his chin resting on the top of her head, while his hungry eyes feast on the pancakes and amber bacon.

Lacey flinches in his grip, he can feel her heart jump for a moment before she relaxes into his embrace, lips melting into a wide smirk as August rocks her from side to side.

“Morning,” she hums delightfully. “Go sit, there is freshly brewed coffee waiting for you.”

August drops a kiss on the top of her head, a low growl of serenity climbing up his throat. “You’re a dream, princess.”

_And you’re all mine._

With a wisp of unwillingness, he detaches from her and walks to the table, where Lacey’s favourite mug of coffee awaits him with steam rising from within. His eyes are a calm sea sparkling at the sunrise as he looks at her with admiration. 

Everything about her tips him across the edges of sanity; the way she smiles at his horrible dark jokes, the way she listens to everything he says with devotion and appeal, the way she speaks about her ideals and sees him like no person ever did before.

Lacey turns her head and sneaks a small glance at him, giving a smile and a wink before returning to the stove.

It took 5 months to admit to himself that he likes this, that he enjoyed being **here** , with her and her stupid cat, or in every distant location in the world. It didn’t matter if they were in Afghanistan or Paris, as long as he got to listen to her breathing in her slumber. That night in Sicily wasn’t just mindless sex. It was a union of two souls. They spent the night talking and while he was reluctant to open up-as he still is-he was stunned to find out just how much this woman shared similar points of views.

Though she never says it specifically, Lacey wants to watch the world burn. 

He hasn’t even told her about his idea, not yet. It’s probably too soon anyway as he only started formulating his intention a couple of months ago. A part of him still fears how she may react if she finds out he’s been selling CIA secrets and dealing weapons right beneath Sloane’s nose. 

“I hope you’re hungry,”

Lacey calls out as she places two large plates of pancakes and bacon on the table and walks quickly to get the maple syrup from the counter. Sir Podrick jumps on the table as she puts the syrup next to the plates. Aggravated, August shoos the cat away and reaches to grab the woman’s forearm, forcing her into his lap possessively.

“You know I am, princess.” he murmurs as he kisses her shoulder and then her lips, before grabbing a piece of pancake and some bacon with his fork and nibbling it deliciously. Lacey remains on his lap, grabbing a stripe of bacon from his plate and chewing on it with a pleasant moan before directing her gaze to August.

“How long do you think we can keep this a secret?” she asks, slight concern appearing on her face. August swallows the remaining pancake in his mouth and sips some coffee to clear his throat. His fingers thread through the gold of her hair, combing the large waves repeatedly.

“I don’t want them to take you away from me.”

His voice is nearly that of a child.

The agency’s protocol won’t allow partners to be in a relationship due to an incredible conflict of interest. “Sloane would lose her shit if she’d find out this entire time we’ve been doing this.” He chuckles dryly and shoves another piece of pancake into his mouth while still looking at Lacey. The first morning rays shine through the wide-open window, basking her face with a shimmering summer glow. 

“We can run away,” she teases. “Buy a yacht, tell Erica to go fuck herself and sail the sea.”

August smirks, his hand descending to the small of her back as images of embarking to the great unknown with her fill his chest with euphoric bliss. 

A daydream, perhaps in the future, after mankind is free. 

“I think she’s beginning to warm up to me though.” 

“Well, she did start calling you **_The Hammer_** after the last mission.” Lacey answers and grabs the mug from August’s side, stealing a mischievous sip. “If only they knew it has a different meaning to some of us.”

August crooks his eyebrow up at Lacey and wipes his moustache clean. His hands reach to tickle the sides of her belly, causing her to let go of the mug before he snatches it back. Her giggles make his heart feel at ease, something he’ll never dare to tell or show her. 

Asserting his dominance by only giving as much. 

“Why did you join the agency in the first place? You never told me.” she wraps her arms around his shoulders, the green of her eyes appearing yellow at the ray of sunlight that beams on her face.

His gaze falls upon the table, staring at the remnants of the pancakes while licking his teeth. Thoughts of his past begin to echo in the chasm of his mind. 

The day his mom fell to her knees and let out a banshee-like howl of agony at the empty ceiling as two agents came into their house.

He was 13, and from that moment on, he was all alone in a cold, ravenous world. 

“I wanted to die for the government, just like my father.” he spits out, thinking of how his life turned over one autumn morning. A tall, lanky boy who couldn’t even comfort his mother as she tore off tufts of her hair. 

August didn’t even cry, not since then. 

The curious look on Lacey’s face fades into sadness, compassion welling on her now golden-green irises. “You never told me how he died.” 

A muscle twitches in his cheek, his eyebrows knitting together as anger begins to slightly boil his blood. “Like all heroes, forgotten. I don’t know how, it was during a mission in Moscow. Nothing in his files but a mention on an accident, no details other than that.” 

“Is that why you have such small faith in the government?” Lacey asks innocently, referring to their pillow-talk. The ones they have while she presses her soft cheek to his chest and draws invisible circles onto his chest. 

The lump in his throat dries as he remembers the weeks that followed after his father was gone. They were thrown to the dogs to be gnawed at. No compensation, no financial support, and no one to comfort young August. 

His mother couldn’t even look at him anymore. Those blue soulful eyes, the cleft of his chin, and even the shape of his nose were inherited from his father. 

The most pain August has ever endured was when someone he loved was unable to look at him anymore. 

Madeleine was a loyal housewife from the midwest who never took a real job. Arthur provided for them. While he wasn’t the warmest father, he kept his family close, taking them with him on his trips, unless they were too dangerous. 

By the time August was seven, he’s already been to all continents. 

After his father’s death, both the money and his mother withered away. Having no experience in anything but waiting tables, Madeleine couldn’t support her own child and perhaps she didn’t want to. The boy was a painful memory of what she lost. 

The last he remembers of her, she dragged him with her to church and went on her knees as August sat on the bench. She prayed and cried out to God until her knees bled and her eyes rimmed red from the tears she wept.

But God never answered.

That week, social services arrived at their door. He never saw her since that day and needless to say, no one wanted a hostile 13-year-old boy. 

August turns his face to stare at Lacey, examining her round, freckled face and her plump, pink lips. They make her look like a renaissance painting of an angel. At times, he’s afraid that his rage will tarnish her, swallow the light of her spirit. Yet he can never hold back, fucking her so roughly, she hurts for days. His instincts drive him to spill all his fury into her cavities. To offer all the spite and hurt that poisoned his soul, as if it will cleanse him. 

And for a few seconds, he is sanctified. Coming inside her makes him feel complete in every sense of the word. 

The soft purring of Lacey’s cat grounds him to reality. The chubby ginger cat rubs around his leg affectionately, his yellow diamond eyes staring at August. 

“Let’s not talk about it, anymore,” he replies in a somewhat final tone.

Lacey nods at him, giving him a look full of understanding. Her fingers reach behind his ear, stroking the soft chocolate curls and tucking them back. “Okay, Aug. But we really need to talk about that!” 

Her fingers move to point at his thick moustache, her eyes narrowing with disdain. 

August strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger and lets them slide down the stubble of his square chin. “You don’t like it?”

Lacey shakes her head with protest, trying her best to appear irritated. “No.” 

_Princess is so cute when she pretends to be angry._

August offers her a smug smirk in return, grabbing the last remaining piece of bacon from his plate and sliding it whole into his mouth. “Too bad, it stays.” he answers with his mouth full, grease smearing on the corners of his lips. “It makes me look dangerous and you love it.”

“No, you look like pornstar.”

“I’d fuck you like one.” he answers with a dark glint in his eyes. In a sudden movement, he places both hands on Lacey’s waist and stands up with her in his grip. The woman squeals with surprise as he flings her over his shoulder with little to no effort and stings her ass with a sharp slap.

“Do you want it here, sweetheart, or in the bedroom?” he asks and bites the fat of her behind. Lacey cries out in pain, her legs kicking the air.

He loves to hear her laugh, just as much as he loves to hear her scream.

*~*

_If hell is on earth, then what does it make you?_

*~*

Like a creature dwelling in the darkness, he sits in the bleak hours of the night, fingers stroking the keys as if he’s a composer, conducting his symphony of destruction. The flesh of his lips chafe at the lack of sleep and insufficient fluids, yet he gives no care. 

This will be his legacy, his gift to the world, his gift to her.

The pale teal light of the screen flickers lightly on his weary corneas. It’s nothing but pixels, black on white, five blocks of paragraphs for now, but the raw power in words proceeds beyond any other weapon known to mankind. So pure, so cataclysmic. 

Just like an atomic reaction.

She will see through his eyes soon. The potential, the greater good. All her words of breaking the system, about dreaming of a better world. A sweet, naive girl with a mind fed with agenda. It was as if they were threaded into one another’s life, destined to be. 

The paving of a new world has already begun. They call themselves the apostles, a group of no more than 12 people, men and women of science and power. Their identities are unknown among one another. It matters very little, the seeds have been sown into the earth. Small acts of terror, biological and chemical incidents around selected locations around the globe, just enough to test the waters. 

Greatness from small beginnings.

It will take time, yet he is patient, and his little angel of destruction will be by his side once the time is right. All mankind will be reunited in peace after the earth will shudder beneath their feet.

~*~

_Does it make you a monster?_

~*~

Something sharp prods his mind to wake up. A nightmare, whispering toxic words in the darkness. He hears a vague ruffle in the webbed darkness of the night and he blindly reaches his palm to stroke her and finds himself abandoned. There is a knot in his gut and a storm brewing in his mind. Carefully and silently, he reaches for the loaded gun in his nightstand and slips out of bed. 

Pale blue and humming, a soft light invites him to follow to the office next to his bedroom. His heart drums heavily in his chest, his face falling as his vision becomes clear. Bright pink winks through the molten mixture of shadow and light. She hovers over his open computer, spreading files and paper plans over the surface of his desk, all the while holding her digital camera, violating his secrets.

Whatever is in his chest shrieks and bleeds with misery.

“Would be more efficient if you’d switch the light on.”

The woman jumps as she hears his voice and a heavy flood of bright light showers her crimes as August flicks the switch on. She straightens up, as stiff as a frozen tree. Unable to face him right away, her face remains hidden from him. August can see the spasm of her legs beneath her nightdress.

“What are you doing?” August asks, his voice low and menacing, eyes travelling from the Nikon camera that hangs from her hand to his secret scribbles as they lay on his desk, right next to his open manifest. 

“Look at me.” he demands, stern and composed as he can. 

Lacey turns slowly to peer at him, her lips aquiver, eyes shining with guilt. The only sound from her is the shudder of her breath that rushes through her heaving chest. 

The hurt must have blinded his thoughts. He doesn’t remember aiming his gun at her head, it’s only when he sees the woman’s surrendering gesture does he register his actions.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his gun and places it carefully on the floor. His hands splay in the air, disarmed, offering a truce as he stretches to stand straight. 

“Was I…” he swallows the dryness in his throat and licks his lips. 

It would take a real fool to be so blind to see what was in front of him the whole time. 

“I was your mission?”

Lacey remains quiet, her eyes refusing to meet his. Tears glide down the apples of her rosy cheeks. 

“Tell me the truth Lacey, please. I just want to understand.” The threat in his voice turns soft, becoming nearly a plea as he takes one step forward, watching the woman flinch and step back, her behind colliding with the desk.

The woman weeping in front of him is a trained CIA agent, yet the despair in her eyes shows no signs of panning struggle. The only way out of this room is through him, a man who is nearly twice her size and knows her every move.

“Erica suspected you’re the one who is leaking secrets, so she sent me…”

That’s why she inquired so much, wanted to hear his thoughts, to sleep at his home despite his reluctance. He agreed for the first time tonight, unaware of her insidious intentions. 

_Did you really think you deserve this?_

August scoffs, his heart clenching painfully in his battered lungs. 

He was wrong. There is something more painful than having someone you love never look back at you. 

“Did she tell you to sleep with me?”

Lacey’s gaze drops to the floor in silence; her answer is nothing but a pathetic sniffle as she pinches her nose.

Bile rises in his throat as he sees shame on her face, so obvious, so obscene. Her purity was false. 

There was nothing sweet or innocent about her, she was nothing but a whore.

“Answer me!!!” he rumbles, more beast than man. 

Lacey jumps and sobs with panic, nodding her head at him with her confession. “Ye..Yes… any means possible.”

Running his palm through his face and groaning with frustration, the young CIA agent exhales hoarsely. He takes another small step towards her, gradually closing the distance between them, watching his shadow loom on her porcelain skin.

Lacey’s eyes widen with panic. Her ankles kick back the wooden legs of the desk, her hands scattering August’s belongings. White sheets of paper fly down to the floor, ink smudged by tears.

“Stay away,” she warns.

“Does she know? Did you tell her or anyone else at the agency?” he ignores her pathetic threats, taking another step closer. Her floral scent fills his nostrils, nearly triggering his instinct to claim her lips. His gaze softens with an ocean of mercy as she shakes in front of him so violently, breaking into tears of grief. 

Delicate fingers cup her jaw, sliding across the slick moistness of her tears as he tilts her chin up. “Please, tell me the truth.” 

Lacey lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes puffy and red, her plump lips swollen. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm. “I had nothing to report, until now.”

His grasp tightens around her chin, forcing her head back to look at the text flickering on the monitor. “All this talk about a better world, I thought this is what you wanted.”

She snaps her head back to glare at him, eyes narrowing with disgust and anxiety. “You thought I’d like **this?!** This is **sick**!”

August’s nostrils flare yet he gives a gentle nod of understanding and hushes her sudden surge of stress. His hand caresses her round, damp face. The thick pads of his thumbs wipe the salty tears away from her skin and his body presses into hers. 

Even a tremoring mess, she is still so soft and warm. 

“Did you ever love me?” 

His lips are merely an inch from her temples as he whispers. His large hand slides down her cheek, stroking down her jaw and descending further below her chin. 

Unable to muster another lie, she remains silent, aware of the fact that the sand in the hourglass has all but diminished, along with her chances of survival.

Words are unnecessary. The truth speaks loudly in her eyes, the poisonous infidelity was always there all along. Struck by her angelic beauty he was too blind to see, leeching onto false heaven, a childish fantasy of love that never existed.

Small spots of blood begin to form in her wide-open eyes as his long fingers lock around her thin neck, squeezing with intensifying force. Tighter, harder. His name remains caged in her throat as she fights for the air she thinks she deserves. 

“No, you didn’t.” August whispers, his vision beginning to blur. “You never did.”

Strangled yips of pain wheeze through her mouth. Struggling frantically while August hardly even bats an eyelid, staring at her with no emotion on his face. Desperate arms reach out to both heaven and hell, her body squirms and her eyes plead for August to let go. 

Begging for her life.

Something breaks inside her throat. Her last breath follows, a short gasp, frozen in her body for eternity as both her heart and her eyes become still. 

August glances at her pale skin, her gaping lips stained violet, her bloodied eyes glassy, returning his broken reflection.

Sorrowful tears roll down the lines of his face as his heart pumps with pain black as tar. A loud gasp of agony rips from him, shuddering across his entire existence as the very base of his soul chars in his chest. Broken, he falls to his knees with Lacey cradled in his arms, his hand stroking her dull hair and her blue cheeks while husky cries of anguish come through his throat.

All emotions end. An empty abyss claims the spot where his soul once laid. The only thing left to him now is pure, undistilled hatred.

~*~

_I am the one who reigns in hell._

~*~

Black cold liquid seeps into weary lungs. Skeletal hands caress his face unkindly, the thin bones, so hard and frozen as they travel down his grey cheeks. No grace is given to him, no redemption. This was nothing but a dream of a life. 

As tar oozes from his throat, her voice continues to call for him. 

His last memories are of Erica, sitting on her throne of lies, swallowing his accusations while peering at him through her dark eyes. Face filled with guilt, oh, she didn’t have a clue. Everyone believed Lacey Hartmann was the double agent this entire time. Angelic eyes hiding dark secrets. He planted the evidence in her house, in her computer, sparing his manifest of course. Just enough to tarnish her name forever. 

A painful wheeze splits his throat. Iron tinged his tongue. 

The promotion was won right after the body was cremated. A fine medal given for having his life put at risk. 

Glory and fame won over the woman you loved.

_I never loved her. She was a lying whore, she betrayed me._

_But you did love me, August._

Blood spills through his mouth as he coughs. His blue eyes shoot open, peering at a great hole in the ceiling and the dust that floats calmly in the chill air of night. The pain sears his shoulder, throbbing furiously to remind him there is still blood running through his veins. He grunts as he clutches at the gaping wound, trying to hold onto the blood that still remains in his wretched heart. 

_Run and hide, little Ingvild_

_I am no one but Lucifer himself._

_I will have my vengeance._


	10. Speak of the Devil

The residents of the floor gape at the torn girl making her way through the lit corridor. Whispers and mumbles wriggle their way into her brain like hungry little worms while she drags her exhausted limbs through the hall. Her ears are still ringing from the burst of gunfire, blood and dust coating her tousled hair. 

Her entire body feels broken, yet nothing compares to the harrowing sensation in her ribcage; it’s as if an animal ate both her heart and lungs and left her open chest gushing with blood. She feels dead, yet walking alive. A dying expedition parades in her bloodshot eyes, ghosts and skeletons raving in the grey matter of her sullen gaze. 

All she needs to do right now is keep moving, just a few steps into sanctuary. 

_‘August Walker really did a number on you.’_

Ingvild swallows a pained whimper, the furious throb in her groin and the sticky filth lining the triangle in her underwear reminds her of his weight, hovering on top of her, pushing back and forth, in and out. In the blinking fluorescent light, images of August grunting and growling spark behind her eyes. 

_‘It hurts.‘_

She manages to make it to the entrance with considerable effort, unlocking and twisting the knob with a bloodied hand. A sick feeling rises in her throat as she stumbles into the cold, timid apartment. The wheeze of air thrusts itself through her nose before she collapses against the white wooden door with laboured breath. Holding a hand over her mouth, she sustains the vomit that begs to burst out. Liam once said that when the adrenalin depletes, the pain kicks in 10 times stronger. 

_‘Liam, he’s waiting…’_

Pained grunts squeak in her throat, the sinew of her muscles sears as she reaches for her pocket. The device is badly cracked and she can’t help herself as the laughter bubbling through her lips swiftly turns into a shaking wail. 

Liam would be pleased to hear she ruined another device in less than a week. As if the old grunt was ever pleased. 

A rumbling thunder reverberates through the heavy sky outside while Ingvild unlocks the phone and gingerly swipes through the folders. The task is simple: send evidence of the eliminated target along with the coordinates. Icarus’ hound dogs will then find and extract the corpse. 

A corpse, that’s what he is; no warmer than the storm clouds outside. She tries to remind herself of this as hesitation strikes her red-stained fingers, trembling at the reflection of the man’s pale face. He looks serene girdled by sombre. 

Dead, while she’s alive. 

But the life she earned is suddenly depleted of purpose, and the bleeding sensation in her chest extends to her guts. 

Agitated, she takes a deep breath and texts Liam the photo as quickly as she would rip a bandaid before dialling the old man’s number. 

“Ingvild,” he answers nearly instantly, calling her name devoid of emotion. It sounded different on another man’s lips, who called her “sweet, sweet Ingvild.” 

She takes a moment trying to see if she is even capable of any verbal communication other than groans and pathetic husky wheezing sounds.

“It’s done,” she reports with a quiver in her voice. Her grey eyes peer blankly into the dust that floats in the air of the blank room. “ **He** is gone.”

Liam remains silent on the other side, observing the image to make sure the evidence will please Sloane. “The target,” he corrects her chidingly. “I’ll send an extraction for you and the body.”

Ingvild shudders at his words; the thought of sharing a helicopter ride with August’s cadaver sounds like a pure nightmare. How is it that a girl who’s seen so many dead bodies in her life is suddenly terrified to the bone?

“Liam?” She calls his name achingly. 

“What?” The old man grunts as if he was on his way to do something important and she has disturbed him. 

The pale specks of dust blur within her gaze while she holds the broken phone against her cheek. For some reason, she imagines being a child again, right before Icarus took her. “Do you think my parents loved me?” 

Liam’s breath becomes tense. In her mind, she can see the old grouch sulking with his lips curled downward, the way he always was when she sought for his attention, even when she was nothing but a lost teenager with an absent childhood. 

“No.”

A tragic chuckle escapes her. There is no lie in his voice. Would it matter if they did? She never knew them anyway, and she never will.

“What’s wrong with you?” Liam scolds, unapproving her odd behaviour. The girl was always weird, but now she is downright being obscure. “You just succeeded where everyone else failed, you killed August Walker, go celebrate or whatever it is you do when you complete a mission.”

The simple, characterless room becomes a washed smudge as tears seam her lids. In the aching pit of her chest, the emptiness suddenly conceives a carnival of unfathomable emotions. “I’m done,” she half-whispers, “I don’t want to go back, don’t want to any…more.” 

Her voice cracks, while tears run down her face. The drops clear a path through the blood and dirt.

Ingvild never shed a tear in her life; not when the girls shunned her as a kid, nor when the nuns hit her. She didn’t cry when Liam took away the toys she stole from the store, and certainly not as an adult. 

Not until August walked into her life and turned them upside down. 

“Ingvild, quit being a child again. No one leaves Icarus, you know this. Now, get yourself ready, extraction will be in a day or two.” Without much so as a goodbye, Liam hangs up.

Ingvild is left listening to her own shuddering breath as the phone drops from her hand. Outside, the rain slams onto the window, the furious rainclouds preventing any sunlight from coming into the room.

She can still taste him on her tongue. Warm and dark and haunting with reveries.

~*~

_‘Whore, betrayer.’_

Thick drops of blood trickle on the sidewalk as the agent walks urgently through the bleak streets of London, appearing like an undead creature. At the late hour of the night, the rain washes the crimson trail down the drain and soaks through his tattered shirt. 

A pale face with protruding cerulean eyes seeks refuge. His skeletal hand clutches his shoulder. The sharp pain deluges through, stinging and stabbing beneath the muscle. Physical pain is just an ounce of what the real hurt is. 

He wonders if the queasiness he’s sensing is the thought of treason, or perhaps it’s just the blood that seeps from his gut. 

August makes his way back to the safe house. Tainted hands smear the pristine railing brownish-red as he takes the stairs. Swallowing every weary groan, his legs tingle as if millions of tiny ants climb their way through the sinew; the ground is barely felt with each step he takes. Legs as wobbly as the legs of a virgin getting fucked for the first time.

He laughs with a flavour of cynicism on his tongue. 

_‘This time, I’ll make sure she stays dead.’_

August swallows to dampen his dry throat, slamming against the door. His hand reaching desperately to find the keys in his pocket. 

_‘I will choke her until all the bones in her pure little throat **crack**.’ _

Hissing, he collapses at the entrance of the dark house. Knees giving in, crashing down to meet the stiff ground. His stretched-out arm prevents his face from colliding with the wooden surface. Shaking violently, another sardonic cackle leaves his bitter mouth, rolling into the air with pure madness. 

_‘She felt good, didn’t she? Screaming as you tore her apart, violating that tight virgin pussy. Oh, how she cried for you…’_

This must be a new low, to be gravely wounded by a girl he just deflowered. 

A woman who was at his mercy. Who he could have killed so easily but chose to spare for those teary eyes that looked so angelic and vulnerable. 

_‘It was all a pretence. Fake bitch, she never wanted you. Sloane sent her’._

August collects the last ounces of strength remaining in him to stand on his feet, teetering through the house with twisted determination. He wonders how many days has it been since he laid dead in a grimy ditch. 

Maybe she’s still here, perhaps there’s still a chance to trace her. 

_‘Are you a fool?! Forget her! You’re dead to her now. This is the golden ticket, a chance to complete the mission.’_

“I **need** to see her,” he growls to himself, reaching the bedroom and stumbling frantically toward his laptop which rests on a small glass desk. “I **want** her! Want to feel her one more time..” He flips the computer open and presses a blood-covered finger to unlock the system. “Want to feel your sweet naked neck. To kill you again and again,” he chokes out in laughter. The throb in his chest begins to decrease as life slowly begins to drain. 

****

Everything before the orphanage is a dark abyss. As if she simply came into being out of nothing. An odd child who meant nought to no one and was never claimed. Days and years melted into a short timid memory until the day Liam found her.

The day her life began.

The young girl lies on the ground, feeling the warmth of the cement beneath her small belly. The wind brushes her ponytail gently while she looks through the scope, glancing at the old fat politician who floats lazily in the swimming pool. Completely oblivious to the 14-year-old girl with a sniper rifle aimed to his head. 

“Breathe slow, or don’t breathe at all,” Liam warns, patiently lying right beside her. “With sniping, it’s all about being precise. Once you miss, you’re dead.”

Ingvild remains silent, trying to halt her own airflow for the sake of appeasing her mentor. Her small finger strokes the trigger, feeling the curved metal. In weeks she had learned to master various types of weapons and today marks her very first actual live kill. 

“What do you see?” Liam queries, breath loud and husky next to her ear. The greying man smells like ashes, or perhaps it’s just her clothes which are dusted with gunpowder. 

“A fat old paedophile,” the girl answers, tilting her head and slowly following the heavy politician as he moves in the water.

Liam ticks his tongue. “Funny but wrong, Ingvild. Try again.”

Bitter and pragmatic, her mentor never smiles or shows affection yet she finds this arrangement as kindness. Liam provides her with both shelter and the making of her career at an agency called Icarus. Numerous times she hears him conversing with them on the phone. Praising the girl for being an extraordinary recruit although stating he could do without her “charming” personality. 

No one has ever praised her before.

“A _target_.” the girl answers.

Liam provides no answer and continues to watch the girl intently while she follows her victim, waiting for the opportune moment. 

Reducing the rhythm of her breath till her lungs remain frozen and her heartbeats slow, the girl pulls the trigger. The sound of a gunshot rips through the sky and the strong smell of ashes fills her nose.

Ingvild lifts her head from the scope, peering at the scenery in front of her with what feels like pride. A small grin creeps on her lips as the sky-blue pool turns cherry-red.

Liam observes the girl’s face, looking for a twitch or a trace of panic. The girl remains as peaceful as a graveyard, her naive grey orbs sparkling of something ominous. 

“How does it feel?”

“I was excited to kill him,” Ingvild answers in a voice which is both soft-spoken yet enthralled. She turns her piercing icicles to stare directly into Liam’s eyes, giving him a look that makes him swear the girl would kill her own mother if she knew her.

“And now I don’t really care.” The girl shrugs, peering over the horizon with indifference. 

***

A soft rustling noise pulls Ingvild out of a deep slumber like a seducing whisper calling from the void. Her eyes itch as she blinks them open, still puffy from the weariness of sleep and the unruly grieving tears. Rubbing them with slight force, she tilts her head and peers at the room. Her mind makes a sluggish attempt to analyze the fuzzy image in front of her while she squints. 

Physically and emotionally shattered, she fell asleep on the floor with her face pressed against the hard surface. 

A small sigh releases through her nose, her body shifting gently as she stares at the empty living room aimlessly, seeing no reason to leave the cold floor. But the whisper calls for her again, a mellow swish that greets her from behind before something claws at her neck and lifts her up to the air. Slammed against the wall she flinches, dangling her feet while trying to stop the room from spinning so she can get a better view of her attacker. 

_‘If this is death, just let him take me.’_

Eyes, angry like a storm in the ocean pierce right into the depths of her soul and split it in half. This is not the gaze of a dead man, but one who staggers on the edge. His hair a bundle of untamed curls, his face sickly and pale, darkened by the shade of days-long stubble. 

Even spat out of hell, he is the most beautiful monster she has ever seen.

_‘How? Is this a dream?’_

Something weaves within her chest. A tingling sensation, like an electrical current that jitters through her tendons. 

The very sight of him beats her heart to race with exhilaration and sweeps her into an undertow of consuming emotions. If only his words were as honeyed as the sensation of his warm body pressing into hers. 

A feeling that made her weak for more.

“You whore, backstabbing filthy whore!” 

Shuddering, he grits his teeth, squeezing her delicate neck while he leans close to inhale her scent. Fury and hurt surge through every sinew and bone, raving fiercely in his berserk glare. The aching wound inside him throbs with extreme anguish yet hatred blinds his vision, leaving no room for the rest of his senses.

“You deceived me,” he rasps, breathing hot against her gaping mouth. His large hands tighten their grip around her neck, pulling her closer toward him. Their lips brush for a tender instant before he once more slams her against the wall, like an animal trying to stun its prey. 

Ingvild gasps, tears springing down her cheeks. 

_‘I accept it, let him have me, one way or another.’_

“You **lied** to me!”

The girl’s face turns scarlet, her corneas becoming rosy and glossy with tears due to the oxygen diminishing from her brain. It all appears too familiar, like a dream that keeps haunting him for eternity. 

Yet something feels absent and misplaced. 

“I had… to…” she swallows, trying to find her submerged voice. “But now you can have my life in exchange for yours, August Walker.”

There is not a drop of fight remaining in her. The muscles of her face loosen as if she offers herself to him, surrendering to her own demise. Bemused, he scowls at her, pushing the weight of his body against her as if he is trying to sniff out her fear.

Yet he senses nothing. 

_‘This is not how it happens.’_

There is no struggle nor terror unlike before, but the mesmerising awe in her suffocating reflection instead. Like a child seeing the moon for the first time. August watches as if struck, observing the silent tears which leave a wet trail down the hollow of her pale face. A memory of her talons reaching out to scratch him makes him flinch yet her fingertips press against his cut cheek, offering caresses that are sweetened in a foreign tenderness instead. 

Rage implodes within him; his hand snaps at her wrist, pinning it to the side of her head while he pushes himself between her legs. 

“Don’t touch me, Lacey!”

The girl’s forehead is riddled with deep lines, for a moment she nearly looks offended. 

“Who is Lacey?” 

Still holding her throat, he steps back. August’s pupils dilate, then widen like a crazed cat’s as he takes her sight in. The delusion of a dying man begins to slowly dwindle, a faint haze changing her eyes from green to grey and her fair from bright to dark. 

She is the girl who lived. 

Shutting his eyes, August leans his sweaty forehead against her own, taking a deep breath drenched with anguish.

“Why can’t I kill you?”

Ingvild shudders in his grip, moaning at the feeling of his broad body as it covered her entirely. He smells sweet of rot and iron, and she can almost taste the saltiness of the tears that rim his beautiful eyes.

“There cannot be peace, without, first, a great suffering.” 

August pulls away, staring at Ingvild astonished as she recites his own words to him with devotion on her tongue. The pale skin of her body glows of the palest blue, her irises bright like two silver swords. In his delirium he sees black wings spreading wide from her back, feathers soft, shimmering like pristine onyx stones. 

_‘Angel of destruction.’_

Her wings engulf him, surrounding him until his strength wanes and the world fades to black. 

~*~

Dragging cadavers is much easier than handling a soon-to-be-one, especially when the man in question weighs more than twice her size and her body screams at her for the torture it has been put through. Ingvild squeezes whatever drops of stamina are left in her strained muscles and haul the unconscious August Walker through the small apartment. The trail of blood and dirt paves the way to the bedroom like a crimson stroke of a brush, painting the apartment bloody murder. 

Getting him on the bed almost seems impossible. The girl sits herself on the edge, slinging her elbows beneath his armpits and taking a deep breath while pulling him up. Her lungs burn, forehead slick with sweat and the tethered threads of her muscles sting. Her own body is spent, forcing her heart to pump so incredibly fast she fears the loss of her own consciousness.

With one last grunt, she manages to get him on top of the mattress. Exhausted, she collapses beside him, panting heavily and tucking away the sticky strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. 

“We’ve made it,” she swallows hard, rolling on her side to peer at him. The beautiful monster lies dormant, face cold and grey as stone, fallen and frozen in time. Her fingers trace his face, feeling the faint heat of his body against her fingertips. 

It’s diminishing like a dying flame.

“Don’t go into Valhalla yet, August Walker,” she whispers, roaming her hands down his chest to where the cloth feels soaked the most with blood. Unbuttoning his shirt, she exposes his muscular chest. The wound tarnishes his skin, black ooze clots around the damaged flesh, and the veins circulating the injury throbbing. She brushes her hand over his pec, feeling the skin burning beneath her hand.

“Don’t leave,” she pleads, caressing his hard cheek with her thumb. 

Climbing off from the bed, she fetches the medical kit from her bag. Her hands rummage through the kit, finding a bottle of alcohol and forceps. She opens the small bottle, curling her nose at the strong scent that fills the room before pouring the clear liquid onto the open wound. 

A loud grunt exclaims from August. He grit his teeth, his broad chest flexing with excruciating anguish. 

“I’m sorry,” she speaks softly, her palms landing on his furry torso, pressing him back down. Her hand hovers the forceps over the wound while she chews on her lower lip. The only time she ever got injured during a mission was by his hand, and ironically he was the one who saw over her treatment, as she is now left to nurse him. 

Even unconscious, August coughs and groans with agony, the tortured muscles spasm involuntarily as the forceps dig into his flesh. Ingvild remains stoic, ignoring the horrifying squelching sounds that come from the wound as she pries inside. She has seen her fair share of blood on what she likes to call “freak accidents,” working for so long in the business. She sometimes had to get creative.

“Sloppy work…” Ingvild muses out loud as she manages to trace the bullet and pull it out. In the 13 years of her career she never missed, never had to fire a gun more than once, or ever left anyone to bleed to death. 

She was an assassin, not a torturer, after all. 

_‘Have you missed on purpose? Or have you lost your skill?’_

“Shut up…” she spits out, her fingers making hasty work of sewing August’s gushing wound while the large man writhes violently, nearly shoving her off the bed in his unconscious suffering. Her hands work deftly through the blood, making one final stitch before carefully dressing the wound.

A long sigh leaves her body, shoulders slumping, limbs completely drained. Never in her life has she desired sleep as much as does right now. August seems peaceful too, the muscles of his face have loosened, his cut features almost looking soft. 

His broad body is a temptation that calls for her like stars calling for the night.

Ever so gently, she feels herself falling, her bones soft, mind becoming cloudy. August feels nice, a vague familiarity which she cannot place. His heartbeat meets her ear, his chest still warm against her cheek. 

Letting herself go, she holds tightly onto his body, her stiff muscles begin to soften, she sinks into the warmest, soothing ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own August Walker or Mission Impossible franchise


	11. Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the mission impossible franchise or August Walker

Pearly tendrils of light shine through the creases of his lids, waking him from a dreamless sleep. A mixture of iron and dream-like mellowness tugs at his nose, like death and fresh roses. It’s so close he can nearly taste it on his parched tongue. Swallowing the scorching dryness in his throat, the fallen man attempts to move but a leaden warmth defies him, hugging softly onto his upper torso and embracing him in the foreign fog of solace. 

A delicate heartbeat murmurs against his, so frail it virtually feels as if it melted into his own ribs. 

As if **she** dissolved into him.

Cold sweat layers his forehead. Snapping frantically he shoves the girl off of him, curling against the headboard with a crazed neurotic look on his face as if he was touched by a blaze of blistering fire. 

“What the fuck do you want!?” August yells, his voice hoarse and cracked. His glare shoots through her across the small bedroom, his mind rapidly trying to grasp any recollection of the messy chamber. This location is strange to him; the walls feel like they’re closing in, withdrawing the air from his lungs in a place that seems like a warzone. The light-carpeted floor is soiled by a long path of the darkest red, the trail leading back to them. 

The porcelain valkyrie is pushed to the edge of the bed, seemingly like a rare mythological creature. Her long hair drapes her face like a dark veil, pierced by two shiny diamonds that glimpse through, imbued with naivety. Still drowsy, she tries to collect her own senses, rubbing her heavy forehead and releasing a soft groan.

“Relax, stop shouting.” she pleads with lids half shut. Her slender arms spread in the air, suggesting a peace treaty. 

August scowls, his airflow becoming short and quickened. He lets a hand rave over his chest with panic, finding it bare and sticky with dry blood and sweat. A clean bandage is wrapped around his left pectoral and crossed tightly around one shoulder. While the aching sting still bites into the wounded muscle, his energy has slightly renewed, as well as his sanity. 

Or so he believes. 

Making another hasty survey of the room, he finds his belt and armed holster scattered on the floor. He makes a dash for it, immediately aiming the gun in Ingvild’s direction, refusing to fall to whatever game this may be. 

She stares at him motionless, remaining seated with her knees folded and her feet nestled below her behind. “Feels nice doesn’t it?” she provokes, her lips breaking into a faint grin as if the muscles of her face are still learning the concept of smiling. “To wake up with your tits out.”

Looking back at her unamused, his hand waves the gun. A glower shadows his face, painting deep lines in his forehead. The attempt to greet her with an onslaught of insults results in nothing but a painful wheeze as his throat sears. 

“Don’t move,” Ingvild commands lightly and climbs off the bed, completely ignoring the click of the gun and August’s arm that follows her every movement. Her legs nearly float through as she moves gracefully, rushing to the bathroom nearby. She grabs a glass and fills it from the tap before quickly returning to sit on the bed, offering the tall glass to August.

Wary of her peace offering, he hesitates, scanning her for any signs of wickedness and finding none. Something else glints through her big irises instead. The deep lines that dot those beautiful greys seem so brittle, immersed in emotion he can’t define or recognize at all. 

It makes him feel attacked.

Snatching the glass violently, he swallows its content in one gulp, feeling a thirst he never sensed in his entire existence. He places the glass on the nightstand, slamming it so harshly it shatters. 

Ingvild peers at the light sparkling onto the broken shards and averts her eyes back to August’s profoundly ragged face. He glares with blazes of fury, evidently less than inclined to trust her despite her efforts to make amends, and the fact that she nursed him through a stormy night. 

It pricks her heart, more than it ever did when she tried to gain Liam’s affection.

“I could have killed you at least three times in your sleep,” she murmurs and then pauses, attempting to smirk again. “You should really lay off the snacks, I nearly fainted trying to get you to the bed.”

Unphased, he carefully gauges her appearance. Soft, pale light shines through the window, showering her skin with a mellow haze as she sits holding a hand over her forearm, squeezing it nervously. Her glance is filled with rain clouds, the cynicism and the hatred he grew so accustomed to is untraceable. 

A piece inside her shifted, deeming her fragile all of the sudden. In his heart of tar and stone, he knows she speaks the truth, yet the spirit of vengeance won’t let go. Bile rises in his throat, fingers twitching as the constant hunger to touch her prickles his skin. The woman is a natural prey to him, making his mouth salivate. It’s enough to see her defenceless to make him want to gnaw fresh cavities in her flesh. 

But something else boils in his veins. More than just a primal need.

“Why can’t you just let me be?” he asks sharply, teeth gritted and jaw strained tightly. A slight tremor runs through his bones, his body dominated by anger and despair. 

“ **You** came here,” she answers, staring fearlessly between the barrel and his furious gaze. A small frown forms between her eyebrows, the grey clouds inside her lustrous eyes beginning to take wind. “You wanted to retaliate.”

Fragments of the other night begin to slice into the black matter of his brain: her tears, her lips moving slowly, whispering his own words of a vendetta in her angelic voice. 

Like a dream, nebulous and virginal, how beautiful she was surrendering her will to his. 

_‘Fight it! She betrayed you.’_

“Oh trust me, princess, I still very much want to see you die.” he retorts, the gun beginning to feel heavy in his hand. He reaches to hold his own wrist, giving a fierce glare. “You should have ended it, darling.”

“Yes, I should’ve killed you,” she agrees, her lower lip slightly quivering as she looks at him with desperation. Her chest begins to heave through the cleavage of her top, the same tarnished one she wore that night. It still smells like his sweat. His musk is so stubborn it lingers. 

“I should be a good girl, for Liam, for Icarus. But I have so many thoughts going through my head over and over again, splitting my mind in half. I don’t want to do this anymore, I don’t want to kill for them, I don’t want to kill you. It hurts.”

Shuffling in a swift movement, she crawls toward him, her muscles flexing inward. Her slick manoeuvres remind him of a majestic feline. August’s pupils dilate as the lines of her face sharpen in his sight and the warmth of her body returns to caress him like a pleasant autumn breeze.

Ingvild reaches her slender arm for his wrist fearlessly before he can even muster any protest. Ignoring the gun aimed at her throat, she forces his palm flat onto her chest and inhales sharply. Her heart thunders against his touch, making his own beat accelerate. 

“Right here,” she says, gazing deeply into his eyes as if trying to enchant him. “I have killed close to 470 people since I was 14. I don’t remember their faces, but I do know I never felt this before, not for any of them.”

The azure ocean in August’s eyes gushes with alarming gusts. The scarce physical contact ignited a spark inside him, driving him to withdraw his hand aggressively, putting down the flame before it begins to spread again. 

“What do you want? What do you think this is?” he asks furiously, boring a frenzied look into her eyes. He feels a certain heat rising in his chest. He reasons with himself that it’s just the gunshot wound festering, burning his lungs to cinders.

“I want you,” she answers, her gaze dropping to his lips, admiring the fine shape. A sharp cupid’s bow hidden beneath the coarse hair of his thick moustache. Her hands dream of stroking his sculptured jaw and feel the bristle of his untamed stubble. 

“I want to follow you on your mission.” 

_‘She is lying. Don’t trust her, remember what happened the last time you’ve placed your faith in a woman?’_

August’s nostrils flare, his mind scouring frantically, bargaining for a reason why she would be different. Twice he spared her, his murderous will weakened by her manipulative spells, clawed by whatever it was she had on him. The voice in his head warns him gravely, yet the fact that here he is, still alive by her merciful hand spikes his doubts, meddling with his thoughts the way only she could do. 

Ever since she stepped into his life he’s been spiralling into a cataclysm. Something that he always gripped with zeal was no longer in his control. 

Leaning closer, he narrows his eyes with spite. The muscle of his jaw contracts, clenching tightly. He grazes the cold barrel of the gun against the supple skin of her cheek. “Why should I trust you?” he spits out, tracing her face further with the hard, crude metal. “You think that because I broke you in, I actually care about you?”

Ingvild studies his face, not showing any sign of fear as she nods to herself. “You need proof.”

The young woman looks around her, searching for something in the room thoughtfully. Her eyes rest on the nightstand beside August and she leans to it, brushing her entire figure against his broad body for a split second as she reaches for the broken glass. 

“What do you think you’re doing, princess?” he asks cautiously, his eyes following her every move. He crooks his eyebrow as she sits in front of him with her legs bunched beneath her bottom. Displaying her left arm with her elbow resting on one knee and her palm facing upward, she presses the shard against her wrist. 

August frowns in a mixture of confusion and agitation, alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. Yet no rational thought makes it to his mind as he watches the glass tear through her skin. 

Silence befalls the room. Abruptly so quiet he can hear the buzz of the electric cords running through the walls. Even her breath pauses as her right hand drops the shard on the bed, her eyes remaining poised, darting onto his. Overcome with disbelief he wonders if she actually did it, scrutinizing her flesh which seems intact. 

Suddenly, a spout of blood emerges through her open wrist. 

Dark red liquor licks down her arm, sensually dripping onto her worn jeans and pooling onto the blanket. August’s heart stirs with shock, yet he attempts to force his emotions away. 

“What the **hell** do you think you are doing?!” 

Keeping her sight on his, Ingvild remains still, not flinching a muscle as the blood pumps out of her severed artery. The pain is excruciating yet the chants in her mind continue to tell her to hold her groans inside. 

_‘Show no weakness, prove your strength.’_

“You want loyalty.”

“Won’t mean a thing if you’re dead,” he answers coldly, waiting for her to stop the blood, to show any fear or regret. The thick liquid continues to flow down her arm, tarnishing her porcelain skin that begins to turn paler as the blood drains from her body. He gathers the torture must be unbearable yet she won’t even make a whimper.

_‘What is she waiting for?’_

“I’m not going to save you,” August warns. 

Ingvild shrugs lightly, trying not to move her arm too much. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll die one way or another, by your hand or Icarus’. At least this gives me a choice.”

The drops staining the bed sound like rain tapping against a window ledge, heavy and dull.

August’s brows knit together, his eyes running back and forth between her arm and her face, watching her lips turning light blue, triggering disturbing memories in his mind. “What on earth does that mean?” Heavy frown lines paint his forehead as he recalls her words before she shot him. 

_“I **have** to kill you.” _

“You’re a slave?” he reckons, looking at the colour vanishing from her face as she nods. “How very disappointing, Ingvild.”

“A tool, controlled by men whom I’ve never seen to manipulate the world and sustain the old order, as you wrote in your manifest.” she shuts her eyes for a mere second, trying to push back the throbbing twinge in her vein as her body screams with panic. 

“They stole my freedom…” she pauses, finding it suddenly hard to speak. “They stole me… what did they take from **you**?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, aware of how her voice slows down along with her breath. He swears he can hear her heartbeat getting louder as if begging to be rescued. 

“But I am bleeding for you.” she provokes, offering a small weak chuckle. Feeling the euphoria creeping to her mind. “You should tell me your plans like villains do in the movies. I’m dying anyway.”

August snarls. Shaking his head, his eyes hold a rageful ocean, washed with concern. The image of her dying corpse lying beneath him flashes into his memory. A dead angel in the snow, lips frozen in time. He should have left her there in the frozen lake. But for a split second, she was Lacey and then she wasn’t. 

As she slowly dives into her own death, he still wonders why he couldn’t let her drown.

_‘For fuck’s sake.’_

Ingvild closes her eyes accepting the shadows that seduce her to join them, the pain dwindling as her body gives in. But she’s quickly pulled back by August who holds her hand, covering the bleeding slit with his tattered shirt and pressing into it. His voice comes as distant thunder, vibrating gently in her ears before words begin to make sense again. 

“Hold it up, like this,” he commands her, folding her arm and fisting her wrist tightly. “Where are the bandages?”

Ingvild tilts her chin, her sleepy eyes gesturing onto her bag on the floor where a pristine white pack of badges lies. 

“Keep the pressure on,” he orders her again. His voice is calm as if once again he follows protocols. Yet something stirred, hiding within the silent sea of his eyes which snap at her for a split second. 

They’re tainted by fear. 

Ingvild watches with hushed admiration as he hurries to grab the bandage and returns to her. A small wrinkle rests between his brow, focusing intently on wrapping her open wound. He makes such a beautiful, neat work dressing her injury, she almost feels sorry for making a mess out of his. 

“Have I proved myself?” she taunts, peeking at him through her lashes while he makes work of tying the dressing tightly at her wrist. His elegant hands wrap a piece of medical duct tape around the bandages, twirling the long thick bands ceremonially as if they were silk ribbons.

His stern gaze rests upon her face, noting every flake of her long lashes, watching the different colours shift like thick liquid as daylight breaks onto her glassy irises. Awe plays with the strings in his chest, mesmerized by the innocence in her that refuses to die even after he desecrated her. 

The craving in him seethes. Like a thirsty man in the desert who stumbles onto an oasis. 

_‘You can’t let her go, can’t let her slip between your fingers.’_

With her wrist still in his grasp, he allows himself to stroke a thumb over the white cotton of the bandage, brushing the suppleness of her skin.

“This is not the devotion I need from you, princess.”

Ingvild flinches like a scared animal, shivering at the foreign tenderness of his touch. No one ever touched her with kindness. Soft, feather-like caresses embark further up her milky skin, making her moan at the pleasant new sensation. Light and careful, his fingers ascend to her neck and press around her chin. 

“Angel,” August murmurs, low and sonorous. His bulky body looms closer, whilst the grip around her jaw becomes tense, drawing her closer until his lips are a mere inch away from hers. “Do you want to be devoted to me?”

“Yes,” she answers, voice still lingering either by blood loss or the passion that begins to cloud her mind.

Consoled by her answer, a small growl builds in the pit of August’s diaphragm, accompanied by a lustful grin that edges his chiselled face. 

“Then show me your devotion.”

“No…” she protests lightly, finally breaking into a true little smile that glints brightly in her eyes. The radiance almost makes him want to take it from her by force. “I’m not a toy.” 

August smirk widens at her response, exposing his sharp fangs that beam at the faint hint of rosy hues that circles her cheeks. 

“Did I stutter?” Authority paints his voice, his grip putting pressure on her nape and pressing her chin up with the pad of his thumb. The patience in him wears thin, greed weaving in his gut yet he vows to hold back as much as possible, unwilling to tear down her wings. 

She must submit freely.

Fallen by his power, she watches the darkness pour into his eyes, his lips pulling apart slightly, anticipating the moment when he can steal the air from her lungs and nibble into the plumpness of her lips. Whatever strength in her wanes, bending to his will. She meekly takes his lips into hers, suckling him above and below, feeling the rough graze of his moustache. 

It’s nothing like the violent kiss they shared in the pit, yet something in her quickly awakens: a hunger like no other, turning the kiss more demanding. Like fire spreading, their tongues quickly engulf each other, dancing feverishly. August’s growl vibrates all the way down her sternum, his hands roaming down to grope every patch of skin. 

A mewl of protest breaks from her as he leaves her lips, followed by a deep sigh as he begins to kiss down her throat. The scruff of his coarse facial hair makes her blood rush and her heart pumps with exhilaration, nearly halting from the bliss of his touch.

“I want everything.” August blurts out, tugging her shirt over her head and then biting her breasts over her bra. The canvas of her skin is tainted by deep-grey and purple shades. Flicking the clasp of her bra, he wonders briefly which were from their fight and which formed as he fucked her so aggressively. He feels nothing but pride in knowing he will make new ones right now. Brand her as he claims her his own. 

Sharp teeth sink into her tender breasts, coaxing yips of pain, marking her with wet little cavities while his fingers fiddle with her jeans, urgently huddling it down her legs along with her underwear. Impassioned, she shifts from her position, kicking away the last remnants of her clothes. The chill air tickles her wet flesh, making her exhale with ghastly need. More wolf than a man, August leans back, his torso layered with sweat that glistens of the dark fur of his torso. The fabric of his trousers is stretched painfully over the massive bulge and mindlessly she reaches out to feel him, kneading the outlines of his erection through his pants. 

_‘Fuck, her touch…’_

Fervent groans tremor through his sinew as she squeezes him harder. She frees him from his trousers, running a hand up and down his shaft, astounded by his vastness and the correlation of smooth velvet skin over rock-hard muscle. Still sore, the pounding heat of need rocks at the centre of her cunt, possessing her into swaying her perky breasts against his cock. Pearly beads of precum exude from the tip, coating the erected peaks of her nipples.

“Fuck!” August pants and swallows hard, as the battle over his self-control drains him. Patience has always been his virtue in bed, his power over women. Release in control by sodomy that inflicted true pleasure. 

But not with her. She strings different tunes, sings seductive hymns to the animal in him. 

He wants her. He needs her. He must have all of her. 

_‘I deserve her.’_

Drawing back against the headboard, his hands snap at her hip, lifting her with ease to stand on her knees right above his cock. Ingvild nibbles at her bottom lip, her eyes falling onto his hardened shaft which lies heavily against his abs. The large man’s Adonis-like form would have looked like a renaissance statue, cut out of marble if not for all the injuries she caused him. 

“Come here,” he commands, removing one hand from her to seize the base of his huge cock which towers with glory amidst the dark bundles of curls. “Take me in”

A stream of arousal rushes inside her, making her quiver as she lowers her soaked crease onto his erection ever so gingerly. Overwhelming cries break from her lips as his girth splits her, inch by inch, whilst his wolf-like glare bores into hers with the triumph of conquest. Every push stretches her wider, forcing her body to succumb and accept him despite the painful effort. 

August is too big, his vastness tears whatever innocence is left to her, and she shivers at the notion that he is not even fully within.

She halts, hearing August’s snarl of protest and realizing she has her nails cleaving crescent-shaped marks on his pumped shoulders. 

“All the way in, angel,” he commands, and then bucks his hips into her and snaps her down onto his pulsating shaft, giving no notice to the scream she lets out as he sears her. He drives himself in until her ass slams onto his thick thighs. 

She can feel his hot flinching cock buried within the dark pit of her gut while his sack strains against her clenched cavern. 

“Good girl.” he praises, pressing her against his chest as they both pant and groan in harmony. Calls of pleasure and cries of pain mingle into a sinful symphony while their organs throb intensely in their unison: hot and wet, engorged with need. 

August stills, his eyes seeking hers for a swift moment before his hand snaps at her neck, thumb pressing at her artery. He makes a small thrust, causing her to whine as little sparks kindle in her cunt. 

“August, please.” she whimpers, trying to ride him to ease the aching despair that boils in her cunt. He fills her to the hilt yet gives no friction but the thundering throb of his thick veins. 

“Devotion.” he replies, his free arm fishing for his leather belt from the floor. With one determined wring of his wrist, the belt wraps around her neck, giving her a nice little collar while he makes a leash of the thick strap. His finger brushes up and down the leather erotically, staring at the girl’s hazy grey orbs to see if he can find a drop of non-consent. 

Instead, she presses her hands on his furry torso and desperately mounts him with earnest moves and teetering gasps. The noose slightly tightens with the sway of her body yet the tension and the grind within is far too agonizing; the need to have him sunken in her depth of her soul defies any will to breathe.

August gapes his mouth with awe, groaning loudly as he feels her drenched cunt gripping around him as she lets him slip out with the rise of her hips. She’s impossibly tight, his fresh little flower, crying out so hopelessly as if it hurts, as if being fucked by his large cock is so pleasurably unbearable yet her life depends on it.

“Poor little tight cunt,” he taunts, urging her to fall faster back on his thighs while bucking his hips into her with deep slams. “you missed this?” he asks with a groan, tying the strap around his fist and pulling her closer to meet his hooded gaze and hot breath. “You missed me fucking you, angel?”

Unable to make more than strangled sobs, she nods with glassy eyes, feeling the squeeze around her arteries while her cunt tightens and blazes with ecstasy. The flames bloom in the pit of her womb, every assault of his cock inside her pushes the heat further through her nerves. Desperate, she is reduced to nothing but her pursuit of wholeness which sprawls through her body while August fills her harder and deeper. The fervent flames lick up her spine, darkness whispering in her mind. 

Yet she leans back, letting the noose devoid the oxygen to her heart and brain as her body falls lost into a delirium.

August feels her pussy tensing around his cock as the belt halts her airflow; through the heated waves of pleasure, an alarm blares. “Careful,” he rasps, reaching his fist to her throat to replace the belt and pulling her until her chest grinds into his own. “Don’t damage what’s mine!”

Her reply is a cracked wheeze, her body jolting as he fucks her into a punishing rhythm. Hot and burning, stoking inside her, balls thudding and battering her hole, the chant of their wet skin colliding in a violent dance accompanies the chaotic symphony of their moans. His angel latches onto him, wrapping tighter and tighter as her body accepts his offering of rage, sucking and milking him dry.

August pulls her face against his, fingers flexing around her jugular, lips grazing her own and then hovering to rob her of her feeble exhales. 

“You want to breathe?” he snarls.

Ingvild nods, feeling the storm of fire about to erupt inside her. Her canal gripping him so tightly she can feel every tendon and ridges of him grazing her walls. Tears well in her raincloud eyes, her heart shrinking as she feels him, all of him, consuming her with his existence.

“Then come for me, angel.” 

With his words, she arches back, letting the fire implode in her loins and sweep her into a rapture so intense her entire body shakes around him. All she can feel is August, filing her soul, seeping in deeper than her thoughts. 

Tears spring down her cheeks, emotions and pleasure whirl at her heart at once.

“August!”

Hearing his name on her lips spikes the savage spirits within. Reduced to a beast, he takes hold of her hips, flipping her over and riding between her thighs. His hands pin her down by the neck and he ravages her through her climax. He can feel the flinch of his cock, swelling larger inside her narrow space. The innocence of her essence devours him. All the hate and pain diminishes and for a brief moment, he is allowed into heaven, feeling nothing but bliss in his chest. His shouts of pleasure echo into the room, his body jerking into her as the hot, white ribbons of his thick seed sprout into her womb.

Falling down to earth is always the hardest part.

Taking a hard swallow, he leans his sweaty forehead against hers, rolling it slowly and listening to the silent hisses from her mouth. Still basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, he pulls himself to his elbows fighting the spasm in his muscles and their will to collapse. His brow suddenly crumples at her sight: her eyes shine with a wide spectrum of emotions that glisten sadly down her temples. Shivering sobs escape from quivering lips, trying to find words that never make it to her tongue. 

August observes her carefully, removing his grip from her neck gingerly and reaching out a thumb to dry her tears. The crystals in her eyes were broken to dozens of many pieces that reflected the light back in various shades. A look of a lost child that carries an oddly familiar sensation, something that makes him cold and warm, as if Ingvild is inside his blood and he is inside hers. 

They had killed each other after all and then brought one another’s hearts to beat again. In his twisted mind, it made for a more profound intimacy than sex.

“Easy, babygirl.” he speaks unusually compassionate, dipping a finger in the wetness beneath her eyes and then slips it into his mouth, tasting the salt onto his tongue. “That was intense for you, wasn’t it?”

She nods silently, the emotional release tingling through her aortae, making her skin prickle with goosebumps. She never felt like this: whole, vulnerable, and belonging. She never felt anything at all, all her life. Her body tries to control the jitters in her muscles yet her body seems suddenly inexplicably cold. 

“Sh… it’s okay,” August whispers, capturing her lips into a chaste comforting kiss. “I’ve got you.” he murmurs and allows his lips to trail lower, pressing soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin and bone, descending through the plains of her naked flesh, tasting the mixture of their sweat. His fingers find the large crescent scar in her lower abdomen, tracing the withering stitches in a sick memory of their first night together.

He feels no remorse. Had he changed his action, she wouldn’t have been his right now. 

Ingvild finally manages to release a sound, moaning with exhaustion as she eases into his care, her lungs and heart catching up when her body begins to float. With whatever strength left in him, August holds her the way a groom holds his bride, and carries her in his firm arms. 

~*~

The bath is filled hot near to the brim. Mountains of foam edge onto the water, looking like fluffy little clouds. This bathroom is not as nearly as luxurious as the one he had in Bergen. It’s painfully plain, like something out of an 80’s film, yet right now it looks like the most outrageous, spoiling delight. 

Sitting on the stone, his hand whirls the water, testing the heat before stepping in. 

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching toward Ingvild to join him as he sits down, releasing a deep sigh of relief as the hot water soothes the pain. The bath is hardly big enough for a man of his size, his knees buck up, peeking above the water. 

Ingvild takes his hand, stepping to sit at the spot between his thighs, making sure not to wet the bandages on her wrists. August’s arms guide her to melt back against his broad chest carefully, avoiding friction with the gunshot wound that begins to ache more and more as the last of the endorphins dwindle. He breaks into a small groan and lands his chin atop her head while glaring into the water with rising concern. 

“They will come for us.” Ingvild finally manages to find words, her voice still husky as her jugular strains. “Once they know you’re not dead, they’ll hunt us. We need to move, fast.”

August weighs her words. He muses over the sacrifice she made, and for whom? The man who stabbed her and nearly left her to float in a frozen lake? ‘She chose, you didn’t force her.’

Indeed, it was her free will that brought her to him. 

“We should,” he answers, rinsing some water onto her torso and rubbing her forearms clean. “Just relax now, you won’t do me good all broken.”

“You care about me,” she teases, a small smile creeping on her lips.

“We will make for my safe house from here, and then we can take the train to Manchester,” he answers, ignoring her comment.

Ingvild catches some foam in her palm, squeezing the dissolving material between her fingers lightly and then blows it with the weak airflow that comes from her lungs. Little specks of bubbles fly into the bath. August watches them with her silently. 

“For the plutonium,” she utters.

“Yes.”

Tilting his head slightly, he looks down to see if there is any disgust or fear shadowing her face, yet finds none. The girl continues forming little abstract shapes in the dwindling white hills, twirling her fingernails on the tiny bubbles. The edge of her spine peeks between the thick strands of her hair, while hues of purple, nearly black, hug her nape. The girl is forbearing, enduring as she was taught; he wonders if it’s to please him, or if it pleases her as well.

Cupping water in his hands, he begins to wash her skin, pouring onto the back of her neck and her shoulders. He brushes his fingers through the brown waves of her hair while she leans her head back and closes her eyes.

It’s as if years of tension peel off from her, uncovering truths she fought to hide. August was right, and so was Liam; no one ever loved her. But now in the arms of a monster, she suddenly senses what she imagines would be care and affection. His touch is no longer clinical and it feels as if vines are growing onto her limbs, twirling around her and pulling her to become one with him. 

In her mind, she can’t help but start picking into the not-so-distant past, recalling being his hostage and the conversations they had when they still hated one another. The anguish that resonates in his eyes didn’t speak of hatred individually toward the world, the specks of brown held a fair amount toward himself as well.

“What did Sloane do?” she asks curiously. “In Bergen, you mentioned she did something to you.” 

She feels August’s sudden halt, his long digits entangled in her hair, pulling slightly while his chest sinks inward. His inhale takes into a heavy suction and his nostrils flare. He didn’t think of Lacey since he woke in Ingvild’s arms. 

“She tricked me.” his eyes focus onto nothing and his fingers resume their course through Ingvild’s wet strands. He becomes slightly agitated, unlacing the small knots that formed at the edge with force. “She suspected me and never liked me- for a reason, of course. She knew someone was distributing secrets and weapons beneath her nose, so she sent a spy. In my case, it was my partner.”

“A woman,” Ingvild continues, the realization hitting her softly. “Lacey.”

Her name on Ingvild’s tongue sends a shiver creeping from the base of his spine. 

“Yes,” he answers dryly and clenches his jaw. “We were partners for months. She got close. She… was loyal, she understood me or so I thought, but then I found out, she wasn’t.”

Ingvild hears the shift in his tone again, in their reflection on the water she sees him staring forward with grim shades painting his eyes. The corners of his lips tugged down as he broods.

“It sounds like you loved her.”

August remains silent, giving no answer. It resonates in her right away - betrayal burnt hotter than the wound itself. In their carnal twist, August burned her, but it wasn’t her carnal devotion he sought for. 

“Where is she now?” 

“Dead.” he answers, releasing a deep sigh of silent rage, not even bothering to shy from the truth this time. Ingvild was bred into a world of monsters; she breathed them, she killed them and he was just another beast for her to slay. Yet she chose to stroke her hand on his snout regardless of what she knew.

“I killed her.” 

In his mind Lacey walks away, her blue heels tapping on the floor, echoing before she gives him one last glance. She turns away, her golden curls dulled by the lack of light as she vanishes into a mist of smoke and shadow. 

Ingvild feels a slight relief at the thought of Lacey being dead, for some reason she can’t explain to herself. August returns his gaze to her again, removing his hands from her hair. His hand wraps around her jaw, pressing her head to look into his piercing glare. He looks for fear but finds none.

“Try to rest,” he commands and then wraps his arms around her possessively. “Long days are ahead.” 

“Will you read me your manifest?”

August looks down on her face once more, wondering for a moment if this is another hallucination. A terrible thought crosses his mind and his heart flinches; what if in these moments he’s actually bleeding to his death in the pit, his mind playing tricks as he breathes his last breath?

But the softness and warmth of her body feels more vivid than ever. Stronger than the doubt that creeps into his mind. 

“There has never been peace without first a great suffering. The greater the suffering, the greater the peace. As mankind is drawn to his self-destruction like a moth to the candle…” he chants, accompanied by Ingvild who also recites his words in her gentle voice. 


	12. Blinding Lights

Naked and glorious, an angel stands captured by his sight. She wields a massive silver sword in her hand while dark ashes float eerily around her heavenly form. White and sparkling, her wings spread open in the air, feathers quivering at each flex of her muscles while she hovers over the barren, scorched ground.

She chants his name, her voice pleasantly familiar. Like a lighthouse, offering sanctuary and peace. 

Still in his suit, August marches on, eyes locked at the heavy grey firmament. He watches as the black particles fall from the clouds and tarnish her wings. He holds out a hand to brush them off; but as he does, one by one they burn to cinders.

”You made me fall.” She whispers. 

”No!” He protests, reaching a hand to touch her face. 

The flesh burns to a crisp at his touch.

~*~*~

Panic spears him at the back of the head. Sweat drizzles ice-cold down August’s wrinkled forehead, setting a lock of his hair astray. Exhaling, he tucks it back neatly and scans his surroundings. The ashen dark fantasy changes abruptly, fading before his panicked glare to be replaced by empty train seats. Outside the window, raindrops splatter onto the glass, and the green Scottish thickets smear into a shadowy smudge.

“What did you dream of?” 

Doubt flashes onto his face upon hearing the soft voice from the seat next to him. Yet here **_she_** is, his enemy - turned - 

_‘What is she to you anyway?’_

Something strains inside his lungs, his diaphragm pushing inward as these thoughts trouble him. He forces them away, reflecting on the obvious. Ingvild is, by all means, a sight for sore eyes. The two times he had sex with her felt like fucking heaven itself. 

There’s an inquisitive look on her face, observing him quietly while his heart still raises a thundering ruckus in his ribcage. 

”Nothing,” he lies and clenches his jaw, trying to avoid another direct glance. 

Yet his own voracious need of affirmation that she’s real betrays him. The notion that Ingvild is nothing but another phantasm toys with his thoughts.

_‘Touch her before she vanishes into smoke.’_

Delicate as a feather, his knuckle rises to graze her cheek, caressing down the well-defined jawline. In silence, she accepts. The sharpness of her gaze still cuts; it slices deep into a battered soul before turning her head to escape his touch with no other questions asked.

She sets her daggers on an old lady who sits several rows in the opposing direction: an adorable, crumpled, little thing. Her wrinkled hands hold a book, yet she peers at the murderous couple through her large square glasses instead of reading. 

The expression on the older woman’s face can be interpreted as what Ingvild believes to be as concern. Bruises and cuts cover both August and her. Their injuries are a screaming evidence to their battle at the old church. But, they are nothing compared to the mess August left under her black leather jacket and the silky pink scarf tied around her neck. His handprints still tingle on her flesh, yet oddly it seems like her body begs for more whenever she looks at him.

Smiling to herself, she adjusts the scarf and swallows the faint ache. The old lady still stares, so Ingvild offers a toothy smile, which immediately makes the elderly woman return a grin of kindness, mistaking Ingvild’s fraudulent expression to an act of pleasantry.

August scoffs lightly, causing her to turn her head back at him.

“I recognise that smile.”

Briefly, he recalls the day he first saw her: a beautiful young woman with a smile so pleasant that only a great deceiver could detect its true cold emptiness. 

“Did they teach you that in your little Icarus bootcamp?” August asks with genuine curiosity.

“No,” she answers, dropping her gaze to the gauze around her wrist. “they didn’t train me to seduce. I just have this talent to pretend, I always had.” She pauses, remembering the girls at the orphanage and the nuns who beat her up. “As a child, I imagined scenarios in my mind, being different. That’s why I’m good at deceiving people.”

“Couldn’t fool me,” he answers with an arrogant grin, cocking an eyebrow.

Ingvild grins back at him, the freckles on her nose visible as a beam of sunlight shines through the dense rain clouds. _‘Another true display of affection’_ , he muses. It seems to be happening a lot in the last couple of days. 

Still cold, yet somehow satisfying.

Leaning closer, her shoulder bumps onto August’s and her poignant scent fills his nostrils. He can smell his musk mixed with the rosewood of her skin, awakening a primal sense of possessiveness in his chest. 

As if there were any other ways in which he hasn’t claimed her yet.

Ingvild opens her mouth to speak, lowering her voice so only he can hear her even though the cart is empty but for the judgmental granny. “If I couldn’t fool you, then why did you still try to fuck me when we only just met?”

August raises his brow, amused at her naive question. “I survived a helicopter crash. The first thing I wanted to do was to fuck the prettiest woman I see.”

Dimples form in her cheeks, and she drops her head to stare at the texture of her denim, feeling a sudden fire engulfing her face. August is the only one ever to call her pretty, and she finds him so as well, though she dares not say it back. Her sapphire-eyed monster with the dark brown mane. In her thoughts, she can’t wait to ride the beast again, have her fingers tousle the curls he fights so hard to tame, and feel his moustache burning her lips.

She even named the brown spot in his eye. 

Having none of her coyness, he reaches his fist to bump her chin, forcing her to look directly into his piercing gaze. “Why did you refuse? Were you saving yourself for the special guy?” 

“I had to meet Liam and collect my mission debrief. Couldn’t be distracted by a pretty boy. No mission, no Ingvild, remember?”

Yes, he remembers. Undeniably, he fucked her in more than one way.

_‘She chose this. She chose you.’_

Lingering on her sight for a few seconds, he balls his thumb across her jaw. Ardent curiosity gnaws at his bones while sinking into the different oceans of her striking irises. It’s as if he’s under a spell of some sort, almost unable to break free without using force. 

“We have our mission now to think of,” he lets go and reaches for the laptop inside his bag. 

Placing the black notebook on the table, he begins to run through different files with deep concentration. Relaxed, she slumps back in her seat, peeking at the screen from the corner of her eyes. Maps, coordinates, and the blueprints of a device of mass destruction mark the screen. 

She finally sees the reason why she was sent to kill the devil in the first place; to prevent his doomsday scenario. Well, now, how did the tables turn.

“Once we get the plutonium, where will we head to then?” She asks with a twinge of naivety. Her long, thin fingers rest on the bandage of her wrist, and she begins to toy with the fabric while staring at August. 

“Where do you want to go, princess? Paris? Hawaii?” He answers cynically, a sardonic smirk crisping his lips. But then his sarcasm dwindles, replaced by a look of determination. Flipping between the tabs, he opens a map with two locations marked in red circles. “A helicopter will pick us up here, to Kashmir, once the deal in Edinburgh is closed. That is if all goes well, and you won’t decide to put another bullet in my shoulder.”

There is blame in his glance; but then he scoffs, amused by his own dry humour.

Ingvild narrows her eyes at the screen, reading the map with great intrigue. The dots quickly connect within the chasm of her mind. August’s plan is a true cataclysmic masterpiece. She can almost hear the screams, the suffering. It makes her feel nothing but awe. “These coordinates… you plan to contaminate the Indus river with radioactive material. The chain reaction will eliminate a third of the world’s population,” she observes while continuing to tear threads of white cotton. “Are you planning to start a war?”

There is no fear or disgust in her voice, but only twisted fascination.

A wicked smirk begins to spread on August’s face, swarming him with noxious content. Her keen knowledge and perception don’t go unnoticed. His fingers leave the screen and move to cover her hand, stopping her from meddling with the dressing.

“No angel, I plan to cleanse the world with hellfire, so we can build a new one.”

Lust sparks in his eyes like a vibrant blue flame, capturing Ingvild who leans closer, ignoring the disapproving glare of the old lady at the opposing row. 

“The greater the suffering, the greater the peace.” 

Those words spill from her lips like honey, causing a need to enkindle at his groin. Her thigh nudges onto his, grinding on purpose this time. August doesn’t flinch from her touch, enjoying the smallest of frictions that ignite between their bodies. 

It’s been so long since a woman touched him like this. 

“You’re giving me a hard-on,” he murmurs and moves closer to lick the sweetness of her lips. Moving his hand from her wrist to her thigh, he clutches her muscles between his dainty fingers. His thumb begins to knead in. 

Ingvild releases a peal of humming laughter, squirming slightly in her seat. “Just wait till you hear the flaw in your plan.”

“Flaw?” he scowls, his hand sliding down her inner thigh.

“You do realise Kashmir is a hotspot?” She remarks, fluttering her eyes shut as she feels him inching closer and closer to the heat between her legs. “Border control is **tight** , do you think we will pass unnoticed with every government in the world trying to stop you?”

August huffs dismissively, peering down at her face. “You think I don’t know that? We’ll be aerial; we’ll come and go like ghosts.” 

“Do you want to fail like in Norway? Or do you want to listen and succeed?”

Mentions of failure are like treading on thin ice and right now, this angel seems to stomp her feet on frozen water. Yet rather than chiding her to find other uses for her mouth, he finds an urge to hear her out. 

With eyes hooded by dark desire, he watches intently. “I’m listening.”

“Get your apostle army or whatever you call them to create a small blast before we arrive. Make it look like an accident, like a fuel tank going off the road.”

Sudden darkness blackens the cart as the train passes through a short tunnel. Ingvild’s pale features flicker in his vision like a celestial blast before cold daylight remerges. Pushing his hand all the way between her spread thighs, he glares, watching the lust on her face. He thinks of the simplicity yet cleverness of her suggestion. 

“A diversion,” he whispers huskily and pushes his thumb against the tender spot at her groin, eliciting a vocal tremor in her breath. 

The old lady clears her throat to interrupt them, opposing their current exchange. August rudely ignores her. Slippery fingers reach to unzip Ingvild’s denim, his hand nestling at the welcoming warmth beneath her panties.

“Can you keep quiet, princess?” he whispers huskily in her ear, prying between the succulent, fresh petals. Humid juices coat his fingers as he rubs them back and forth at her arousal. 

Still sore and yet throbbing for his touch, she answers with a small plea, her mouth gaping with aphrodisia, throwing a glimpse at the crone who is now frowning with outrage. Pliable and languid, August’s fingers dive into her soaked cavern, blissful at the velvet that tries to fight him while he parts her open and seeks for the uncharted region that will have her in his mercy.

A sharp cry of astonishment proves it to be swifter than he believed.

“Hush now, love,” he warns at the mewls that splutter from her open mouth, his moustache grazing her cheek as he hovers near to provoke her. “your freedom is with me, in a world I’ll create, but we have to be careful”.

He takes a long pause, inhaling at the pleasure on her face.

“Don’t you want it?”

Ingvild squirms in her seat, pushing down to meet the plunge of his talons. “Ye..yes.”

Streaks of blood-red light wash over her face as the train passes through a long, lit tunnel. It seems as if the cart makes its way to hell, and August relishes in the journey as he watches his fallen angel riding his hand and moaning for more. 

“August!” She whispers loudly, caging him between clenched, quaking thighs and pushing her way through ecstasy before falling hard into her own damnation.

“Good girl,” August praises, as he draws his slick hand out and puts his fingers in his mouth, sucking her sweet elixir. His eyes avert to the old woman who clamps her wrinkled lips with disdain. Laughing inside his heart he grins, giving a small bow with his head. 

_‘Your little pet will hold your hand at world’s end even if it kills her.’’_

And it might.

~*~*~

The station hums like a thousand little angry hornets caged in their nest. Busy strangers rush in and out. Their suitcases heavy with sickness and anxiety, but absent of meaning. Always observant, Ingvild strolls along the yellow-painted edge of the platform, regarding and marking each man and woman around her with the attention of a huntress. 

“Careful,” a firm grip pulls her back, making her spine collide with August’s bulky chest. “you’ll slip and fall, and that will be really shitty.”

Rolling her eyes she turns toward him, mischief beaming on her lightly-freckled face. “Ok, boomer.”

“Boomer?” August curls his nose. Rogue, chocolate locks are light on his brow. The gruff hollow of his cheeks sucking in even further. “how old do you think I am?”

Ingvild tilts her head, pretending to assess him up and down carefully. “Mmm… 48?” She taunts, her eyes dropping to a carrier containing twin cups of coffee which hangs from his fingers along with a thin, brown paper bag.

“I’m 34!” he corrects with annoyance. But of course, she knows that. For weeks she studied him, gathering every piece of information required to eliminate the target known as August Lucas Walker. Ingvild knows how August takes his coffee, what’s his favourite film and how many women he slept with.

Double espresso, Silence of the Lambs, and a worrisome amount.

“Here, I bought you something to eat.” He offers a thin paper bag. The aroma of something sweet and warm wafts into the air between them. By instinct, she swallows the dryness in her maw. The girl is famished, the gurgling sounds of her stomach pestered him back at the train. 

But she is always willing to sacrifice. His valkyrie, taught to suffer. 

Days of mental and physical strain made her cheekbones look more prominent than before. And he quite dislikes it.

Ingvild grabs the bag and peers inside suspiciously, finding a danish pastry that makes her salivate. Liam didn’t allow sugar and carbs even when she was just a teenager. _‘Sweets are for weak girls, Ingi_ ’. Every now and then, she snuck through the window before the sun rose and stole fresh skolebrød from the baker. 

The fluffy dough melts in her mouth. She hums in delight, chewing with closed eyes as if the warm danish is the best thing she ever sunk her teeth into. Tearing the pastry away from her mouth, she holds it to August’s face, offering a bite which he accepts with a hint of a grin. 

White powder sprinkles his moustache, like pristine snow. Ingvild smiles with amusement, flicking a tongue over her lips. August simpers dreamingly, unaware. The thought of licking the sugar off his moustache crosses her mind but then her smile quickly dies and her face lowers carefully. August’s face drops into an irritated scowl, reckoning the situation right away.

“I know him,” she shares, blinking at the direction without moving her head. “Earphones, Nautica bag, looks like Justin Bieber after too much heroin.” 

Relaxed, he follows her gaze. A lean, young man with ashen blond hair stands at the other platform, sucking on a red lolly while pretending to listen to music on his phone. 

“Old crush?” August mocks and clenches his jaw.

“Yes, he is Icarus,” Ingvild answers, staring at August’s black shoes. 

_‘What was his name? Richard? Dick?’_

The recruits never befriended or contacted one another due to the fact that one day, if they fail, they will have to be eliminated by a different Icarus member. But they knew who was who, so when an Icarus assassin comes shooting them in the face, at least they can die proudly. 

“How would they already know that we’re here?” His finger tightens around the coffee carrier while he sighs with annoyance and glares discreetly at the assassin who began to move. 

“They don’t,” she explains knowingly. “But I bet there are agents at every port in the world, waiting for you to make a mistake.”

Hands in pocket, the lean assassin begins to casually march toward their platform, his eyes scanning the surroundings while he draws dangerously close. With her head still bowed, Ingvild muses on how much it will suck to die now when life has finally become pregnant with meaning. She suddenly feels a familiar grip latch around her forearm, pulling her forcefully.

A train passes near them at a raging speed, blowing the rivers of Ingvild’s brown hair in the wind as August captures her into a passionate kiss. His fingers entangle into her soft hair, holding her head as he savours her with his hot mouth. Fiery tongues collide, desperately licking onto one another in a wet, breathless dance. 

They taste of buttery vanillas and a sugary glaze. 

It almost feels as if the ground has melted. Both time and her heart slow down to a near stop. A wave of disappointment paints Ingvild’s chest as August slowly breaks away, leaving her abandoned to a ghastly rush of thoughts that suddenly begins to trouble her mind.

Predatory cerulean eyes stalk the assassin’s who obliviously walks away.

“C’mon, we have the next train to catch. We’ll be safer at the hotel.” August beckons, his grip tightening around her arm to guide her after him but is met with resistance. Turning to face her, he notices the heavy storm clouds on her gaze. All the beautiful hues diminish into a melancholic grey.

“What is it?” 

The bag is crumpled between her anxious fingers, her eyes a well of concern and abrupt sadness. “They won’t let us make it together, they’ll keep coming.”

August pauses, recounting her words but then brushes them away. He takes her arm again, drawing her near and giving her a reassuring look. An uncomfortable knot resides in his abdomen. All his life he lived in the shadows alone, escaped alone, even with the apostles; he had no one other than him to care for. 

“Stay close to me, remain alert and we’ll be okay, angel.”

Ingvild’s eyes run back and forth between his, seeking solace in the brooding man. She is hardly convinced but the pull of his hand leaves her no choice but to follow.

“Kiss me again before we go, August Walker.” she pleads, her face still tingling from before. 

An ominous glimmer shines on August’s face. His lips part, full of thoughts as he looks at the little angel who begs for his affection. He reaches to cradle her little skull and leans in, taking her into another breathless kiss.

~*~*~

A thick layer of steam covers the mirror, obscuring and hiding his reflection. August Walker - John Lark. Once a faceless ghost, but no more. The mask of phantasm has now been removed; in a few days, the rest of the world will know what Sloane fought so hard to cover. 

_‘The suffering will free them, you are nothing but their saviour.’_

Reaching his palm, August wipes a clean circle on the glass. He’s almost beginning to feel like himself again. Hungry blue is vivid on his stare, his stubble finally tamed to a point, and those curls, well, he brushes his wet hair back by his fingers. 

_‘Let’s hope princess is good with scissors as she’s good with a knife.’_ He jests and then reaches his hand to feel the raw stitches at the point where his chest and his shoulder connect. 

As he walks out from the shower room, he finds Ingvild half seated on the hotel bed. The thick white blanket surrounds her, making it look as if she’s resting on a cloud. A plain black bra covers her breasts, and his laptop is perched on her thighs. A streak of panic passes through his chest like a sharp knife but then he quickly relaxes, seeing the fascination glowing on her face.

“What are you doing with my stuff, angel?” His smooth baritone greets her, drawing her sights to him. 

And if isn’t he but a god. A white towel is wrapped low on his waist, exposing the trail of dark hair and the bones of his hips. Ingvild glimpses, watching the droplets of water drip from his wet chest down to his torso and the carpet.

“Reading your plans.” She answers with a smile. “Smallpox outbreak? Biological terrorism is so… sexy, but how did you get the virus?” 

“How did you get my password?”

Ingvild tilts her head at him and curls her face with scornful amusement. “Please…”

August rolls his eyes playfully and removes the towel, throwing it on the chair and striding toward the bed. His fingers sneak around the carbon-black edges of his laptop before he snatches it away and places it securely on the nightstand.

“Enough of this. Big day tomorrow, we should rest for a change.” He mentions casually and then lifts the blanket crudely. Ingvild’s half-naked skin glows amidst the linen. Fading fingerprints hug her ribs and the slight curve of her hips. Devoted, she wears his crest with honour, though the strongest sigil is the crescent scar that decorates her torso. The soft tissue - a pale pink, a tad heightened over the smooth texture of her belly. 

A reminder of his claim, he took and gave again and now she will always be bound to him.

Slipping into the empty spot beside her warm little body, he can’t help but hover his fingers above the mark. 

_‘I am her first, in so many ways.’_

“You’ll look so nice in lace and pink,” he declares confidently, letting his fingertips stalk to the cups of her bras and expose one of her peachy nipples. “clad in something sweet and delicate, the way you really are.”

His wet hair drips water onto her torso. Playfully, he smears the water on the small bow of her breast, making her flinch with a hushed sigh. All her life she’s been called anything but sweet. She wonders if Walker’s vision is impaired or if he’s senses are completely absent. 

“Are you delusional again?” She mocks, sinking down between two lush pillows as August decides to reposition her beneath him. His entire body moves to cover hers, scattering saccharine kisses, edged with the coarseness of his bristly moustache. Ingvild breaks into gentle hissing chuckles, shutting her eyes with mirth. Engulfed by his touch she feels like she could cry once more as if the emotions are far too strong to handle. 

‘I think I can feel this way,’ she muses, throwing her head back as August strokes her hair and kisses down her navel, licking and nipping every patch of her soul and murmuring something about the things he would teach her. But her mind is absent, lost deep a pile of silk, white feathers. 

_‘I can be with him until time won’t matter anymore.’_

But as August dots her belly with affection, black poison creeps into her thoughts. It coats her dreams of white feathers in sticky, heavy tar. And from the oozing swamp, the faces of many people appear.

_‘Do you think your fairytale has a happy ending, Ingi? They will rip him to shreds and lock you away.’_

“I have so much to show you…” August groans, peeling her underwear slowly, exposing her soaking mound.

“I need to stop them, I need to buy you some time.” she calls out, nearly panicked, lifting her head and shifting beneath him. Bemused, he pauses, rolling his square chin over the bone of her pelvis while his talons clutch her hips. 

“What are you talking about, Ingvild?”

“Go alone tomorrow, I will stay behind. I can contact Liam and give him false information to buy you time to get the plutonium without any problems.”

The water spray from his hair as he shakes his head like a mad dog, rasping with protest. “That’s the **_dumbest_** idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Listen, Liam will…”

August’s claws move to her thighs in a sudden speed, clutching painfully hard and making her hiss with surprise. “Ingvild, Liam doesn’t give a flying **_fuck_** about you!”

Ingvild frowns and braces her hands on his wide shoulders, trying to set herself free from his hold; but August’s grip is iron. He shakes her as if to wake her up from her foolish unrealistic expectations. His nails bite further into her muscles while his bright eyes spear into hers. 

“You are smarter than this. You’re the smartest woman I’ve met, why are you so blind?”

With a face full of rage she sulks but then turns her gaze to the window, staring at the pouring rain instead. “You don’t know anything about him. He cared for me, he gave me a home.”

“Jesus…” August shakes his head again, his voice dropping lower and sharper. “He weaponized a child. Liam took away your childhood, your freedom. You could have been someone else if not for him plucking you out of the litter.”

_‘But then she wouldn’t have been yours.’_

Ingvild remains adamant to her thoughts, the disapproval in her glassy irises painfully apparent. The eyes of a fallen angel, so abundant of tragedy and loss, refusing to accept her dark fate. Can he blame her? It was only a few days ago when she finally woke up and felt something true for the first time, and those remnants of the old world still attempt to chain her. 

But the old world must always die. And he will be the catalyst. 

Gingerly, his hand reaches to cup her chin, making her look straight into his eyes. Still sullen, she scrutinises him, the rainstorm clear on her gaze. 

“Angel,” he calls and comforts her with a languid kiss on her belly, breathing hot fumes against her flinching flesh. 

“Stay by my side,” he murmurs, planting another slow, lingering little kiss on the apex of her body. He smooths his hand over her curves like burning gold. 

Ingvild shivers, her breath a shuddering sob, squirming as his mouth huffs hot against her womanhood. 

“We’re so close, can’t you feel it, angel?”

Perhaps he was too harsh before. Now she must know tenderness, that his lust can comfort as much as it can hurt. Gracefully, the humid warmth of his mouth presses to the hidden pearl between her legs. No one ever kissed her there before, he gathers. 

_‘The first, in many ways.’_

“The new world awaits us,” he promises and snakes his tongue between her engorged lips, licking a clean, wet path at each of her fresh petals. 

“August…” Ingvild arches on the mattress, her lean body curling upward as if possessed by demons. 

“Once the suffering is unleashed, humanity will come together.” He promises, lowering his mouth to drink from the lake of milk and honey between her thighs. His tongue drowns into the depth, coaxed and motivated by her desperate moans and pleas. Earnestly, his mouth works her into submission, making her sway and sing to his demand while he hums sweet songs and feasts on her purity. 

Lashes reaching the ceiling, she comes on his tongue, losing herself under waves of white euphoria. Her body is flooded by swarming spasms before she fell back to earth again. Wiping his thick moustache, August moves above her, rushing to rid himself of his growing need. His strong hands flip her on her belly and spread the cheeks of her behind. 

“Fuck!” They curse together. He is too heavy, pushing down on top of her as he splits through her wetness. In the best of her efforts, she tries to push up to meet his thrusts and take back what she desires of him. 

“Be by my side”, August grunts, bottoming out and reaching a hand for her neck to tilt her head to the side. A forceful onslaught of searing kisses swarms her jaw and he captures her mouth while covering her completely.

“Watch the world burn with me.”

Reaching for the headboard in despair, she breaks into helpless prayers, letting August fuck her until time loses all meaning. 

~*~*~

Sleep wasn’t this deep in years, no nightmares nor dreams tormented his subconscious. The golden-haired whore has faded away; at the embrace of the little valkyrie, he sleeps so soundly. Euphoria is so near he can smell the burning cinders and taste embers on his lips. The fire is still whispering at the coals. 

_‘No more government, no more religion, no more pain. Only my reign of chaos.’_

_‘And like in all the good stories, the hero gets the girl.’_

His hand reaches for Ingvild, wishing to pull her into the embrace of his naked body. His craving for her seems to be unquenchable. The longing for touch as if he was never touched before. He muses if it’s the nearing drums of apocalypse that signals his success that makes him so passionate.

But instead, a cold empty space awaited him. Disappointingly abandoned.

“Ingv…” he raises his head, eyes scanning the room with a frown. From the corner of his eye, he sees a yellow note on her pillow. Silly scribbles of angry cartoon cats and little hearts decorate the message:

> _**“There is no other way. I’ll see you again in Kashmir, Boomer.”** _


	13. Paradise Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own August Walker or The Mission Impossible franchise and its characters

> _There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  
> _ _There cannot be love without first a great tragedy._

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

_‘I told her not to go, I **commanded** her!’_

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh; what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

_‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’_

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

_‘You know what they’ll do to her…’_

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence. 

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

_‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’_

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normally through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

_‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’_

~*~

 _‘Amazing,’_ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, **_anyone_**. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

_‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’_

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement. 

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

_‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’_

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child, she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

_‘Liam never smiles.’_

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother **hated** you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this… mass-murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

_‘Is this Valhalla?’_

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla…” 

_‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’_

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else…”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: _‘Liam never gave a flying **fuck** about you.’_

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

 _‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries._ ’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare. 

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.” 

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful **_monster_** dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you **are** a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s **never** going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

_`Stick and stones may break my bones…’_

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here…” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber. 

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid-thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you **really** need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifest, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “ _poetry_ ” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world. 

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl…” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

_‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’_

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

_‘Memento mori.’_

“The plutonium,” August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

_‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’_

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasizes his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

 _‘A cock and two balls.’_ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity. 

_‘I don’t have time for this,’_ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. Restless throb thunder between his ears like a scab latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

_‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’_

_‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’_

_‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’_

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows. 

_‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’_

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, _**fucking**_ , Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.” 

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

_‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time…’_

_‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’_

_‘So now you are doing this for **her**?’_

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

_‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’_

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you a while,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short-cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel. 

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifest. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the… “ 

August stills, his muscles shrivelling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

_‘Oh angel, what have you done?’_

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the news site, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “ ** _Jane Lark_** ”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s news site. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own: 

> _**“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  
>  We will ride eternal to the sun.  
> The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,   
> United by our cause of just war,  
> Unflinching we will scour the earth,  
> Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”** _

_‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will._

_And you left her to die.’_


	14. See you in Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the very final chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it. Thanks for reading and please leave a comment and feedback 🖤

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs. 

> ”Angel,  
> With those angel eyes  
> Come and take this earth boy  
> Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?” 

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure. 

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?” 

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body. 

“August…” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying…”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance. 

_“Stay, princess…”_

_“Don’t leave…”_

_“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”_

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still _very_ much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them. 

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron. 

_“You’re taking it so well, princess,”_ he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

 _“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?”_ he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately. 

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin. 

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

_“That’s my good girl.”_

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them. 

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid. 

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug. 

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel. 

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently. 

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare. 

But her laughter soon dies. 

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint. 

_“Time to fall, angel.”_

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death. 

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.” 

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker. 

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

_‘Stop!’_

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

_‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’_

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station. 

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his. 

But none of these images appear before her.

_‘You can’t escape this.’_

Her screams shudder through the entire floor. 

* * *

“Are you **_out_** of your _**goddamn mind?**_ ” 

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

_‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’_

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.” 

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull. 

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache. 

_‘Your angel of destruction.’_

“She’s just an asset.”

* * *

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks. 

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction. 

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them. 

A true king among peasants. 

_“Is that?…”_

_“What the fuck?!”_

_“How the fuck did he pass security???”_

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

**“Stop! Hands in the _fucking_ air, Walker!”**

_‘Ah, took them long enough.’_

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright. 

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him. 

“Someone call Director Sloane down here _right now_ , she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue. 

_‘If she’s still alive…’_

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in. 

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

> _“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”_

> _“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”_

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air. 

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she? 

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever. 

_‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’_

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades. 

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

 _Her_ corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut. 

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them. 

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her. 

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms. 

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…” 

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids. 

“I _am_ here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death. 

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.” 

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest. 

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?” 

_‘Tell her.’_

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest. 

“Tell me,” she begs him.

_‘She needs you to say it.’_

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips. 

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.” 

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.” 

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, _his_ by free will. 

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue. 

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.” 

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

* * *

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out. 

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

_‘Walker.’_

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision. 

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely. 

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her. 

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her. 

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

* * *

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim. 

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god. 

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world. 

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

 _‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’_ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been. 

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave. 

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’ 

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming. 

_‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’_

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns. 

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes. 

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined. 

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is **our** cause, **our** better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal. 

_‘How is she even real?’_

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp. 

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky. 

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss. 

* * *

**Epilogue.**

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump. 

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings. 

“Loki!” 

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

_‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’_

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I’m not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose. 

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir. 

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles. 

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove. 

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond. 

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck. 

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

_‘Who is she to you?’_

_**‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics by Elvis Presley - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inch Nails - We’re in this together. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own August Walker or the Mission Impossible franchise. 
> 
> A/N: So this is my new multi-chap fic and I hope you guys love it. I felt like August Walker Deserves more than he got in the film. I'm originally posting and updating on Tumblr first so feel free to check it out.


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